


Unus Pro Omnibus, Omnes Pro Uno

by cherryfeather



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Friends to Lovers, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Slow Build, Threesome, UST, light kink, past abusive relationship, warnings in individual chapter summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 296,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Text message: Porthos]<br/>[u up?]<br/>[save me.]</p><p>Athos squinted at his phone, lifting his head off his arm and typing back one-handed. [from what?]</p><p>A moment later:</p><p>[not drunk enough. @ frat party. aramis trashed & dancing like a stripper. help. ur our RA ur contractually obligated to save me]</p><p>--</p><p>Junior year at Dumas University: Greek parties, fencing meets, and hopelessly being in love with your best friends. Typical season, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of what I can only assume will be something long and possibly ridiculous, if there's any interest in it. Rating for the whole work, not for this chapter. At the moment, plans include Constance, one of Athos' fellow RAs and d'Artagnan's hopeless crush; Louis and Anne, the hapless and terrifyingly competent, respectively, heads of the Student Activities Committee; Coach Treville, of the Dumas Musketeers fencing team; and Anne de Winter, Athos' ex-girlfriend with a lot of history he really doesn't like to talk about.
> 
> Athos, Porthos and Aramis are juniors; d'Artagnan is a wee baby freshman.
> 
> Chapter contains alcohol use and slight abuse, and a non-canon character making unwanted sexual advances and being rebuffed with physical violence.

_Bzz bzz._

Athos cracked open an eye. He'd left explicit instructions for no one to text him tonight. He had important napping to do before the extremely necessary all-nighter to cram for his morning midterm.

_Bzz bzz._

He fumbled for the phone on his desk. Someone was going to feel his wrath.

[Text message: Porthos]  
[u up?]  
[save me.]

Athos squinted at his phone, lifting his head off his arm and typing back one-handed. [from what?]

A moment later:

[not drunk enough. @ frat party. aramis trashed & dancing like a stripper. help. ur our RA ur contractually obligated to save me]

[why must I always be the fucking white knight?]

[u were the one who had 2 have the white car. we all told u it was a bad decision.] A pause, then, [will buy u an entire minifridge of booze.]

Athos considered it. [and wash the whole team's fencing padding before next meet?]

Porthos' next text was immediate. [u r the worst and i h8 u.]

Athos waited. He could wait. He had all the time in the world.

His patience was rewarded a moment later. [OH GOD dj is playing shakira and aramis' hips do not lie, get me out of here ill do whatever u want]

Athos smirked and pushed himself up off his pillow, grabbing his car keys off the top of his fridge. 

A loud burst of laughter and profanity echoed from the common room as he walked past, and a voice called, "Athos!"

He backtracked and ducked his head in. "Yes?"

It was d'Artagnan, his shiniest new recruit to the fencing team and most troublesome new resident. "Want to play?" D'Artagnan and some of the other first years were playing Mario Party, or some other godawful technicolor video game that usually ended more friendships than it started. Still, they were having fun, there were no Solo cups in sight, and it was a weekend, so quiet hours didn't start until one in the morning. He waved a hand over them in benediction.

"Thank you, but no." He held up his car keys, jingling them in explanation. "Porthos SOS'ed me from the frat party." 

D'Artagnan grinned. "Duty calls?"

Athos rolled his eyes. "Or words to that effect."

"Are you gonna need help carrying them?" d'Artagnan asked shrewdly. He'd seen some things at the fencing team initiation--and yet, still wanted to be their friend. It boggled Athos' mind.

He considered it. "Probably."

"Shotgun," d'Artagnan exclaimed in delight, and scrambled over the arm of the couch.

-

"Don't you have a midterm tomorrow, anyway?" d'Artagnan asked, leaning his head out the passenger window of Athos' run-down Pontiac. The power window on that side had ceased to function; they all took turns running out to cover the open window with plastic wrap when it started to rain (which, in Massachusetts, was frequently).

"Yes," he said, pulling into the drive that led into the Greek row.

"What's this worth to you, then?"

"A fridge full of vodka and Porthos cleaning the fencing gear for a month." He'd significantly up-revised his demands on the drive over, as they passed hordes and hordes of drunken underclassmen running hither and yon across the green, green fields of Dumas University. "Yell if you see a parking spot. This is insanity."

"Insanity" was putting it mildly. The long row of old colonial houses was lit up bright as day, and the lawns were packed like a ball room. Drunken students were dancing on the toilet paper- and plastic cup-strewn lawns as music blared from the houses--they'd been able to hear it halfway across campus, with the one window down.

"Spot in front of the Xi Delta house," d'Artagnan sang out, and Athos spun the wheel. "Do you have any idea where they even are?"

Athos jerked his chin at his phone, sitting in the grimy cup holder. "Got a text a minute ago. Probably Porthos."

D'Artagnan checked, and badly stifled a snort. "'Going to kill Aramis. Get here soon,'" he read aloud. "Well, that could be anyone." Athos chuckled, and d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. He tapped in the passcode and opened Athos' texts. "What do you want me to say?"

"Ask him where the hell he is, but first, why does everyone know my passcode?"

"It needs to be more complicated than '1111,' Athos," d'Artagnan said without looking up from the phone. "And don't say it's because you need to remember it when you're drunk."

"Well, it is." Athos waited for a vomiting undergrad to get out of the parking spot before pulling in. 

His phone buzzed in d'Artagnan's hands, and the kid made a little sound of triumph. "Kappa Mu Kappa house, living room. Aramis is apparently making a scene."

"When is he not," Athos sighed, and popped open the driver's door. "Tape the plastic up before you get out, I don't want someone puking in that open window."

"Charming," d'Artagnan drawled, and tossed Athos back his phone before twisting over the seat divider to reach the square of plastic and duct tape.

Athos' fencing reflexes proved surprisingly helpful in navigating the mass of staggering, whooping students between their parking space and the KMK house. Duck, weave, stop just in time to not be run down by a conga line in togas. He finally hit the steps of the house and turned, half-expecting to see d'Artagnan trapped back behind the keg stand in the Omega Rho yard--but no, d'Artagnan was right behind him, panting slightly but smiling brightly at Athos. "Not bad," Athos said, offering him a rare smile.

D'Artagnan beamed. Then he looked over Athos' shoulder and winced. "Oh, no."

Athos sucked in a deep breath. "Aramis?" D'Artagnan nodded, frowning. Athos sighed, shook his head, and turned around. "Oh, good God in Heaven above."

The KMK living room had been turned into a disco, spinning rainbow lights throwing colorful circles around the room. They'd pulled all the furniture to the sides of the room, leaving as much space in the center as possible, and the living room floor was currently a mass of gyrating bodies.

In the center of it all, button-down open and chest gleaming with sweat, dark hair damp and messy, with a beer bottle in one hand and a blonde in the other, was Aramis.

"How does he _do_ that?" d'Artagnan muttered beside him.

Athos shook his head, not trusting himself to try and form words for a moment. The stab of painful, delicious want was so familiar as to be almost comforting. Then he shook himself, starting to elbow his way through the partygoers towards the dance floor. "Try and find Porthos," he said over his shoulder to d'Artagnan. "I'll meet you by the front door when I've got our dancing queen in hand."

"He is young and sweet," d'Artagnan snickered before breaking off.

Athos managed not to get any beer spilled on him as he pushed through the crowd, cursing a blue streak under his breath and in his head. Aramis always _did_ this. Went to a party, got drunk and glorious, and got everyone three steps to an orgy just by being himself. He could see why Porthos had called for help. Aramis was unbearably attractive hungover and crawling into class in his pajamas--like this, in his element, lithe muscles rippling as his hips rocked sinfully against a girl he'd just met, he was godly. 

Athos bit back another few choice curses and got an arm around Aramis' shoulders. "Aramis," he half-yelled in his ear, needing to get close to be heard over the pounding music. His lips brushed the shell of Aramis' ear, and Aramis shuddered, looking over his shoulder with heavy-lidded, inviting eyes. For a second, Athos forgot how to breathe.

Then Aramis recognized him, and the hot, compelling look vanished, replaced with pure and uncomplicated drunken joy. "Athos, you came!" He threw his previously-blonde-holding arm around Athos' shoulder and buried his face in Athos' neck affectionately. "Dance with me a bit," he yelled over the noise. "Porthos is sulking."

"Porthos texted me to come bring you home," Athos said, waving an apology to the girl Aramis had been dancing with and starting to tug Aramis towards the edge of the floor, his arm slipping to Aramis' slender waist. "He's had enough."

"I haven't," Aramis pouted, but he let Athos drag him off the dance floor anyway. A groan went up from the seething mass of dancers, and Athos shook his head in amazement as Aramis held up his hand, bottle still clenched tightly in it, and bowed to them. "My people, I bid you fair hunting for the rest of the evening, but duty calls me home."

A few people catcalled as he draped himself around Athos then, but Athos was so used to everyone thinking they were all fucking that he barely paid it a second mind. The person who clapped an unfriendly hand on his shoulder, however, he did mind.

"Hey, man, you're taking the whole party with you," a belligerently drunk football player slurred in his face when Athos turned. Aramis' party acolytes were never usually this belligerent when Athos and Porthos inevitably called him home, but apparently the alcohol had been more free-flowing than usual. 

Athos gave him a look that could freeze lava. "The party seems to be fine without him." Aramis chuckled in his ear.

Tall Blonde and Rude gave Aramis a covetous look then, reaching out for Aramis' sweaty, half-shirtless chest. Aramis leaned back slightly, his lip curling. "No," he said, frowning, but the guy reached out again, grinning, his hand aiming for the bare strip of Aramis' chest. Aramis smacked his hand away, clearly drunk and clearly annoyed, and he gave Athos the barest of _go ahead_ glances.

Athos didn't even have to move the arm he still had around Aramis' waist, nor Aramis the arm that was around Athos' shoulders, for Athos to draw back and slug the blonde ape square in the nose. He'd gotten extremely practiced at decking grabby strangers at parties since becoming friends with Aramis.

The man reeled back, clutching at his nose, and his similarly blonde and muscled friends jumped forward.

"Party, Athos, not bar brawl," Aramis sighed in his ear.

Athos barely had time to curl his fist again before two people materialized out of the crowd at his side. "Take a walk, gents," a familiar voice growled, and Athos relaxed instantly.

Porthos was the only one of them wearing his fencing team jacket, but apparently the sight of _burly guy in fencing duds_ was enough to penetrate the drunken skulls of their would-be assailants. Athos normally wasn't glad they had a reputation for rabidly defending each other across campus--but tonight, it certainly helped. The one in the lead backed off, holding up his hands. "Sorry, man. We didn't know."

Porthos jerked his chin at the one Athos had punched, who'd staggered away a few steps and was holding his head back to stop the blood flowing freely down his shirt. "Teach your friend to ask before he touches."

"And that no means no," Athos added, turning his deadly look on them. 

They nearly scrambled over each other to get away, and d'Artagnan laughed out loud. "Don't you just love a bad reputation?"

"My reputation is impeccable," Porthos muttered, then turned to them, stifling a yawn. "Can we go home now?"

Athos glanced at Aramis for confirmation, only to find Aramis resting his head on his shoulder, looking up at him with warm eyes. "There's a reason you're my favorite," he said, reaching up and tracing his thumb across Athos' two-day stubble. His eyes flicked to Porthos, and he smiled. "You, too."

Then he made a face, turned away, and threw up into the potted plant beside them.

"How romantic," Porthos drawled.

For all that Aramis was a literal hot mess when he was drunk, getting him home was never difficult. He went quietly into the back seat with Porthos, laying back against Porthos' broad chest as Athos neatly buttoned his shirt back up. D'Artagnan popped the plastic of the window out to get the two of them fresh air (and him and Athos; Aramis and Porthos reeked of eau de undergraduate party, and sweat and weed and stale beer was not the most pleasant combination of smells), and Athos drove slowly and carefully back to their dorm.

Athos' room was the biggest, so inevitably they always ended up there. Porthos laid Aramis out on the bed, Athos stripped his shoes off, and d'Artagnan said goodnight before Aramis could commandeer him as a body pillow. The kid had good instincts. 

"I'm sorry we ruined your study night," Porthos muttered, flopping down beside Aramis and surrendering himself up to the duty d'Artagnan had fled from. "Want to come down and nap for a bit first?"

Athos pulled up his chair to his desk, yawning, as he contemplated the pile of notes on the textbook before him. "No. It's fine. It's statistics." 

Aramis perked slightly at the sound of his voice, rousing himself from drunken stupor to curl around Porthos even more tightly. "Thank you for coming to get me and defending my honor, Athos," he slurred, smiling sleepily in Athos' general direction. "And you, Porthos," he added, clumsily patting Porthos' chest. "Even if you didn't dance with me."

Athos flashed a faint smile at the bed, catching Porthos' eye. Porthos rolled his eyes, one hand caressing the back of Aramis' head even as he shared a commiserating look with Athos. 

God, they were both so stupid in love with him.

"Any time, Aramis," he said quietly, and turned back to his notes. The rest of the night passed peacefully enough, with only the sounds of Aramis and Porthos' breathing and the rustling of Athos' papers to break the quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slow, comfortable morning and a rather more unsettling lunch. Athos should have known it wouldn't last.

The sky outside started to lighten just before five. Athos stretched, popping every vertebra in his upper back, and looked over at the bed. 

Aramis and Porthos were sound asleep, both still in their t-shirts and jeans. They also still reeked of party, but it was a comforting kind of stink. Athos rarely went out to parties anymore, and he appreciated it when Aramis and Porthos brought the whole experience home for him. Aramis' sweaty hair had dried in curls around his face, a face that was currently buried in Porthos' neck. He'd thrown an arm over Porthos' chest in sleep, and Porthos' hand loosely covered Aramis' where it lay over his heart.

Athos envied the way they could just wrap themselves around each other totally unselfconsciously. He'd never been able to do that. He always worried too much--if he was too close, too heavy, if they'd think it meant something it didn't (or meant something it did, that he desperately didn't want them to know). How Porthos managed to always be so close to Aramis, Athos didn't know--didn't it drive him insane, always touching but never the way he wanted? 

He'd asked once, too drunk to hold the question back, one night last year when it was just him and Porthos, sitting on the floor with their backs against the bed and each already halfway into their second forty of the night. 

"I just want to...I dunno, be with him all the time," Porthos had said, leaning back against the bed and closing his eyes. "I don't care if it's not that way, y'know? It's better to be his friend and be happy than worry about something I'm not gonna get."

Athos didn't understand until later, when he'd avoided Aramis (and by extension, Porthos) for a week after walking in on Aramis kissing their Writing 105 tutor in the common room. He'd thought it couldn't get worse than the awful hopeless gut-punch of that sight, but the week without them proved him wrong. Everything was boring, slightly less colorful and much less funny. Alcohol hit harder and homesickness ached worse, and he thought about Thomas all the time when he didn't have new brothers to make him feel less alone, more loved.

"I owe you both an apology for being a complete idiot," he'd said without preamble or explanation when he sat down at their lunch table the next Monday, and when they both smiled at him, Porthos warm and knowing and Aramis just plain happy to see him, Athos got what Porthos meant. Better just to be his friend and be happy.

He groaned and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Right, because five a.m. and three hours before a midterm was the right time to be thinking of all these things.

He plodded manfully through another hour and a half of review, because statistics was his last gen ed requirement and he was _not_ going to fail, damn it, before sighing and closing the book. He pulled on his fencing sweatshirt and headed downstairs to the dining hall attached to the ground floor of their dormitory ("I refuse to live anywhere where we have to walk outside to get to a dining hall," Porthos had said flatly, and thus Athos had requested an RA assignment in Alexander Hall).

"Good morning, Serge," he said as the older man unlocked the doors, and shuffled blearily past him to get to the coffee.

"Early rising, Athos, or have you not gone to bed yet?" Serge laughed, and slapped a few pieces of French toast on the massive griddle for him. Athos smirked and toasted him with the coffee, and Serge laughed again. As he waited for the first wave of breakfast to come off the stove, Athos sipped his coffee and watched the rest of the dormitory slowly come awake. When he pulled an all-nighter (which was more and more frequently these days), Athos liked being the first person in the dining hall in the morning, watching the changing of the guard as the crew team trudged home from practice and the early-rising science students headed out.

Serge handed him a tray without comment, and Athos carried six coffees and three plates of French toast, bacon, and eggs upstairs, perfectly balanced by virtue of long habit. Porthos and Aramis were still out cold, and Athos left the tray on his desk and went to shower. Well, less a shower and more standing under freezing spray until he felt vaguely awake, but it served its purpose.

When he got back to his room, damp towel around his neck and a clean t-shirt over the same jeans, they were still asleep. Athos did not watch them sleep as he ate his breakfast, because that would be creepy and weird. Still, he felt very peaceful as he sat at his desk, half-hunched over dining hall eggs and statistics notes, with them sleeping steadily beside him. It wasn't the first time they'd done this--passed out in his bed while he did things around them--and it never failed to be comforting, in a strange way. They were there, solid and dependable, but minus all the anxiety-inducing aspects of their presence, like always worrying he was going to say the wrong thing and have them decide they didn't want to be his friend after all.

His phone buzzed gently with a reminder alert, and Athos glanced down at it. 

[7:45 - DO NOT FORGET TO GO TO YOUR MIDTERM YOU FOOL. remember to eat first.]

Constance must have programmed it in; she always added the reminders to eat, after Athos ended up in Student Health Services last year for fainting during fencing practice. He shook his head--spring semester had been rough--and groaned, pushing himself up to his feet. He threw his graphing calculator and a few pencils into his backpack and snapped the plastic travel lid over one of the cups of coffee.

"Hey," he said softly, kneeling beside the bed and putting a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos stirred, cracking open an eye at him. He glanced at the window, taking in the light, then sighed and nodded, curling into Aramis a bit more. "You off, then?" Athos nodded, and Porthos hummed an acknowledgment. "You eat?"

"Yes," Athos said, rolling his eyes. "Be back in an hour."

Aramis lifted his head slightly at Athos' voice and made a sleepy sound, reaching for Athos with the arm across Porthos' chest. "Study okay?"

"Well enough." He caught Aramis' questing fingers with his other hand, tangling them together for a moment. It was easier in half-dawn light, running on no sleep and with the two of them stretched out easily in his bed. "Breakfast is on the desk."

Porthos rubbed his head against Athos' hand on his shoulder like an affectionate cat. "G'luck," he murmured sleepily.

Aramis yawned and stretched up towards Athos. "Kiss for luck?" he offered, his eyes still half-closed. Athos smiled, ducking his head, and Aramis pressed his lips to the still-wet mess of Athos' hair. "Go get 'em," Aramis sighed, and burrowed back down against Porthos. "See you after."

Athos walked out into the chill fall morning with a blush high on his cheeks and a buoyant kind of warmth deep in his chest. Statistics couldn't have been farther from his mind.

-

"Verdict?" Aramis asked through a mouthful of eggs when he came stumbling back an hour later. They were still in his room, though they had to have left at some point, since they both wore different clothes and smelled like a shower. It did a funny thing to Athos' heart, knowing it was _his_ room they both came back to. They sat on the floor by his window, legs jammed together in the narrow space, and were demolishing the breakfast he'd left for them.

"Probably still passing the class," Athos said, unslinging his backpack from his shoulder. "And isn't that all that matters, really?" 

"Well done," Porthos congratulated him. Aramis gave him a thumbs up, his mouth full again.

Athos swept them a mock bow, then flung himself down on his bed. It was still warm, still smelled faintly of Porthos and Aramis, and he could feel his eyes drooping.

"Get some sleep," Aramis said. "We'll get you up for lunch."

Athos nodded, already half-unconscious, and pressed his face into the pillow Aramis had used. He was out in seconds.

They were only three weeks into the semester, but already Mondays were Athos' favorite days. He only had to drag himself up for statistics, and then he could crash until Porthos and Aramis got him for lunch. Then, more crashing until fencing practice at 3:30. The best and easiest day of his week. 

By longstanding tradition, he slept like a rock until he was awakened by the bouncing of his mattress, as Aramis and Porthos came back from class and sat at the foot and head of his bed, respectively. They'd talk loudly about whatever they'd been arguing about on their way back from class until Athos came back to the land of the living. They had a philosophy seminar Monday mornings, and Athos had already gotten so used to the two of them debating waspishly that it was almost as soothing as one of those 'gentle wake-up' alarm clocks all the hipsters had on their phones.

"I agree with Porthos," he yawned at length, curling into said friend's leg and resting his head on it. "Solipsism is just depressing, Aramis, and I say that as someone who's been there." Porthos patted his hair, and Athos yawned again.

"But don't you think it's interesting?" Aramis pressed, and lay down on the bed so his torso was trapping Athos' lower legs. "I mean, how do we really know what exists outside our own minds, anyway?"

"We have faith," Porthos said, flashing him a look. "You're the religion major, you should be the one telling me that."

Aramis laughed, and Athos stretched, pointedly making sure to kick Aramis in the ribs as he did so. "As I said, the sensation of not being sure anything else in the world is real is one of the worst feelings in the world, and arguing it as an interesting philosophical construct is just insensitive." He rubbed sleep from his eyes and rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling.

"When did you have a solipsistic moment, Athos?" Aramis teased, his smile broad and affectionate as he rested his folded arms on Athos' knees. "Particularly bad bender?"

Athos closed his eyes and remembered the cold fluorescent lights of the ward, the bland, repeating pastel patterns of the wallpaper and the sterile scent of antiseptic laying thick over every sense. His wrist itched, and he reached for it, half-expecting the scratch of the paper-plastic wristband. "Something like that."

Porthos, always more perceptive than he let on, must have noticed something in the shift in his voice, the set of his shoulders, because he nudged Athos with his hip then. "Come on and eat. There's shepherd's pie downstairs."

He slowly returned to himself over lunch, losing the memory in a hot meal and the banter of his friends. D'Artagnan joined them, and Athos found himself actually smiling as the first year recounted, in lurid detail, their travails in finding the two of them at the party the night before. "And really, Aramis," d'Artagnan finished, rolling the edge of his Coke in a circle on the table, "I have no idea how you always manage to have the best _and_ the worst people interested in you. That guy was literally twice as big as me."

"It's a gift," Aramis said, grinning. 

"I heard," a new voice cut in, as Constance descended into the empty chair beside Porthos, "that the three of you got into a brawl with some Red Guards at the party last night." She pointed her fork at d'Artagnan, who went pink. "And that you were there, too, young man." Constance was a fellow junior and d'Artagnan's first-year student mentor, and she took a very narrow view of what she saw as their 'corrupting' him. She and Athos had been friends since RA training the summer before their sophomore year, and he, Porthos and Aramis loved her unconditionally. They were all fairly sure she was equally fond of them, though of course she'd rather die than say so. She said their egos were inflated enough as it was.

"Were they Red Guards?" Porthos asked, stealing a grape tomato from her salad and neatly dodging her fork stab. "They weren't dressed like 'em."

"They were in football costumes," Athos pointed out. "They weren't really dressed like anyone." He considered it. "Though if we'd known they were Red Guards, I certainly wouldn't have stopped at just punching one of them."

The Red Guards were the campus nickname for Rho Gamma Epsilon fraternity, one of the oldest and most blue-blooded fraternities on campus. They'd acquired the nickname from their crest color, a deep crimson, and from the blood they frequently spilled in belligerent confrontations with other campus organizations. Athos had turned down a rush invitation from them his first year (Porthos and Aramis, being scholarship students, hadn't even been worthy of notice), and as such the fencing team had always had exceptionally chilly relations with Rho Gamma Epsilon.

"How mature," Constance said frostily.

"One of them was hitting on Aramis and wouldn't take no for an answer," Porthos said, his voice going deep and harsh just at the memory. 

Constance blinked. "Oh," she said, and dug daintily into her salad. "Well, that's entirely different, then. Good job on the broken nose, Athos."

"I love your exquisite sense of the appropriate, Constance," Aramis said, batting his eyelashes at her. "And your magnificent bloodthirstiness."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Aramis, I still want my shirt back."

"Someone spilled a beer on it, I'll buy you a new one."

Porthos gave Aramis a narrow look. "I _thought_ that shirt didn't fit you."

"Yes, but it brought out my eyes." He batted his eyelashes at Porthos this time, and Porthos snorted, shaking his head. Athos and d'Artagnan shared a slightly wild-eyed look over the table, and in unison took very large bites of their shepherd's pie to avoid having to say anything.

When they all went their separate ways after lunch, Aramis to Feminist Theology, Porthos to Social Inequality, and d'Artagnan and Constance to a first-year mentor group meeting, Athos went back to his room, made a bare concession to comfort by kicking off his shoes and jeans, and fell back into bed. He fully intended to go back to sleep. 

Only he kept getting hung up on Aramis wearing Constance's shirt.

He knew it was a stupid thing to fixate on. They all wore each other's clothes all the time; he slept in one of Porthos' old high school shirts, for crying out loud, because it was twice his size and ridiculously comfortable, but they'd never included Constance in it before. It was just like Aramis to dance along the line of taboo. Not taboo because it was women's clothing in general, Athos didn't care about that, but because it was Constance. She'd been with her drippy boyfriend Jacques for years, and they all respected that, and all their interactions were firmly in a platonic and nonsexual zone.

But that shirt Aramis had been wearing last night was hers, and he'd borrowed it because he was going to go out and get trashed and make people want him. She had to have known that when she loaned it to him. She didn't condone that. Or at least, she never had before. Did she now? Was she trying to help him land someone in particular? Athos had to shake his head like an Etch-a-Sketch to clear _that_ sharply painful thought.

It brought out his eyes, Aramis had joked. It had been too dark to notice at the party, when it was drenched in sweat and open on his chest (and she had to have known that, too, when she loaned it to him, that it was too small for him, that he wouldn't button it all the way). Had he noticed this morning, when the sun was just coming up on the yard outside his window, that the dark shade of purple made his eyes look like chocolate?

Well. _Clearly_ he had.

He wondered if Porthos had this problem. He wondered if _everybody_ who knew Aramis had this problem.

Athos groaned aloud and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. It still smelled like Porthos' soap, Aramis' hair gel, and he remembered vividly the way they'd been wrapped around each other in his bed this morning. How Porthos had invited him to come lay down for a bit before he'd started studying. For a second, just one, he let himself imagine what that could have been like--Porthos' shoulder solid underneath him, the soft echo of breath moving in that deep chest better than any lullaby, and Aramis stretched out along his other side, an arm and a leg thrown over him and holding him close. Warm. Surrounded. (Loved.)

His whole body was awake and tense with arousal now, and Athos forced down the hot, shivery feeling in his chest with another groan. He was not, _not_ going to jerk off thinking about his best friends. He needed to fence later that afternoon, and he wasn't going to be any good if he was loose-limbed and and sloppy from an orgasm. He was the captain. He needed to set an example.

Only his mind wasn't dropping the scenario of the morning, the morning as it could have been if he'd stretched out between them like Porthos had asked him to. Aramis lived in the language of bodies and pleasure; he'd feel Athos' body taut and shivering like this, and he'd know just where to kiss his neck, where to palm Athos' hip and slide his hand further around. And Porthos would hold him, hold both of them, keep Athos from falling apart and keep Aramis from doing too much too soon, because Porthos always seemed to know just when Athos was about to shut down and go someplace else in his head. Porthos took care of him. Aramis would stroke him slowly, steadily, and Porthos would hold them both close and keep them grounded to his earth.

Athos bit back a curse and shoved his hand down into his boxers. He was already shaking and on edge, and it barely took two short jerks of his hand before his mind went blank with staticky pleasure. 

He did not say their names when he came. He had to look them in the eye in two hours. It was going to be hard enough as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed a little calm and friendship (and, yes, UST) before the storm. For those curious, at the moment Porthos is a sociology major, Aramis is a religion major, and Athos is a double French/education major because he likes to torture himself with overwork.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fights have consequences, and parties have worse ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this section for fairly serious alcohol abuse and references to potential drug overdoses. See end notes for disclaimer pertaining to said alcohol abuse.

Athos took a second shower before practice. He would not, would not, would _not_ turn up smelling like sex. He was the fucking captain.

He and d'Artagnan always walked to practice together on Mondays, and d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at Athos' freshly-wet hair when Athos met him on the steps outside.

"I still smelled like party," Athos said by way of explanation. D'Artagnan laughed, falling into step beside him, and Athos relaxed.

It wasn't too long of a walk, around the curving, hilly paths of campus to the sports center--a lot of student athletes lived in Alexander Hall, and the fencing team was no exception. It was early October, and the leaves were starting to change, the air turning brisk and chill. It'd be cold once the sun went down. 

"It wasn't this cold yesterday," d'Artagnan muttered, zipping his fencing jacket up higher. "I hate Massachusetts."

"It's not all that different from upstate New York," Athos said, more out of a desire to be contrary than out of any real affection for his home state.

D'Artagnan sniffed. "Different enough."

As they rounded the corner of the student center, Athos saw Porthos and Aramis lounging on the stairs, waiting for them. His stomach lurched unpleasantly, but he swallowed down the stab of guilty panic and smiled as d'Artagnan waved. Porthos waved back, elbowing Aramis, who had his nose in a sheaf of photocopies.

"I'm getting a jump on my reading for Comparative Religion," he said as they drew closer. "Would you believe we have eighty pages for Wednesday?"

"I'm deeply sorry you actually have to do work at school, Aramis," Athos said, taking comfort in the familiar formula of statement, banter, bicker. They both laughed, getting to their feet, and Porthos slung an arm around Athos' shoulder as they climbed the stairs. It was almost too much like his fantasy for comfort, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

"Still, eighty pages," Aramis sighed as they entered the building and headed for the fencing studio. "It's criminal."

"Forgive me for my lack of sympathy," Porthos snorted, "when I've got a group presentation due tomorrow and everyone but me's running around like a headless chicken--"

"Double major," Athos reminded them, effectively trumping all their complaints. 

"And let that be a lesson to you, young d'Artagnan," Aramis said, clasping their young friend's shoulder and giving him a mock-parental look. "Never, ever do what Athos does." 

"Off the fencing strip," Porthos amends, ruffling Athos' hair. "On the fencing strip, he's a fucking genius and we should all be so lucky. Off the strip, he's the king of terrible choices."

"Yes, thank you," Athos said with great dignity, firmly shrugging Porthos' arm from around him, but he was warm inside all the same. In high school, everyone gave him a wide berth--richest family in a town of rich families, and _she_ hadn't helped matters--and he found he actually liked being the object of friendly teasing. They were comfortable enough with him to know he wouldn't take offense; they treated him the same as anyone else.

Treville was waiting outside the studio when they approached, and Athos' steps slowed. The rest of the team was already inside, jackets on and warming up, but Treville's arms were crossed over his chest, and he had his _not pleased at all_ look on.

"Uh-oh," Aramis said when he got a good look at him.

"What've we done this time?" Porthos said under his breath.

Athos, however, was thinking about the fight the night before, and how Constance had said they'd been Red Guards they'd butted heads with. "Richelieu," he muttered, and he felt Aramis and Porthos tense.

"D'Artagnan, go and stretch," Treville said. D'Artagnan opened his mouth like he would argue, but Athos caught his eye and gave a warning shake of his head, and d'Artagnan swallowed his protest. He gave the three of them a worried look as he headed into the studio.

"Good afternoon, Coach Treville," Athos said as pleasantly as he could. 

Treville snorted. "My office, you three."

Aramis and Porthos flanked Athos almost unconsciously as Treville herded the three of them into his office. It was just the reassurance Athos needed--since he'd been the one to throw the punch, he had a feeling he was about to take the most heat.

"It's all perfectly justifiable," Aramis started to say as Treville closed the door behind them.

" _You_ are not allowed to speak," Treville snapped at him. "You've been twenty-one for barely two weeks, which means I'm finally obligated to stop turning a blind eye and treat you like an adult, and I've already gotten half a dozen reports of you getting trashed all over campus."

Aramis' mouth snapped shut, and his guilty flush would have been cute if the situation didn't seem so dire.

"I've grown to expect Aramis running wild," Treville says, turning his gimlet-eyed glare on Athos and Porthos, "but I expect a little higher standard of behavior from you two."

"I've been twenty-one for a month," Porthos said, shrugging, "and Athos was twenty-one last year, so I don't really see--"

"If this were just about underage drinking, we wouldn't be having this discussion," Treville said. He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed Athos with a look. "Dean Richelieu came to see me this morning."

"I'm sure he did." Athos folded his hands behind his back. Richelieu, the Dean of Student Affairs, was a Rho Gamma Epsilon alumnus, and was very protective of his former fraternity. As such, he'd also had it in for Athos, and the whole fencing team by extension, since he turned down their rush invite to join the team instead. "Is it worth anything at all to say we didn't know they were Red Guards?"

Treville shook his head. "You've gotten into fisticuffs with them enough that Richelieu feels it doesn't matter."

"It wasn't _fisticuffs,_ it was one hit," Aramis burst out. "And it wasn't his fault--"

"I am perfectly aware of whose fault it was, Aramis," Treville said coldly. Aramis closed his mouth again, his blush deepening, but he didn't say anything else.

"It was self-defense," Athos said evenly.

Treville snorted. "He didn't make a move at you. You were defending Aramis."

"Defending Aramis is self-defense, to me." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He caught Porthos and Aramis both flashing him a startled look out of the corner of his eyes, and Athos swore inwardly. Oh, well. He lifted his chin, feeling a blush starting and daring it to go any higher, and breathed through it.

Treville gazed steadily at him, and Athos met his eyes without flinching. At last, Treville smirked and shook his head. "That's very touching, Athos, but to Richelieu it still seems like you broke one of his students' noses without provocation."

"That was _not_ a nose-breaking punch," Porthos snorted. "What an overdramatic bunch of--" He quieted quickly when Treville glared at him, and muttered the rest under his breath.

"Whatever punishment you want to give him," Aramis cut in, edging closer to Athos, "you should split it among the three of us."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, and Athos felt him draw closer, too. "We were all there, we were all responsible--just because he threw the only punch, it doesn't mean--"

"No," Athos said over them. "I take full responsibility for it."

They both fixed him with _you idiot, we're trying to help_ looks, but Athos ignored them, staring straight ahead at Treville. He'd guessed Richelieu's game, and he was willing to bet Treville had, too. Athos was in a far more secure position than the two of them. He could afford a black mark in his record. They couldn't.

Treville nodded his approval, then glanced back and forth between Aramis and Porthos. "You two should be grateful Athos wants to take the heat for this. You know your scholarships would be in jeopardy if Richelieu decides you're being disruptive?"

Porthos went brick red. When he spoke, his voice was choked with anger. "That isn't fair."

"Life rarely is," Athos said, drawing a deep breath through his nose and letting it out. "Can we get this over with, Coach?"

Treville nodded. "I managed to get you off with a warning, Athos. But you get one more infraction this semester--so much as a parking ticket--and I'm going to have to suspend you from the team and the first two tournaments."

Athos nodded once. Richelieu knew how to hit where it hurt. Athos didn't particularly care about missing their first two invitationals--it would hurt his chances for regionals, missing the experience, but he was more worried about the team. "Would I be allowed to stay in an advisory capacity?" he asked, thinking hard. Even if he couldn't fence, he could coach. But Treville shook his head, and Athos sucked in another calming breath. "I understand," he said finally, well aware that Porthos and Aramis were quivering with suppressed anger beside him. "We'll be extremely good."

Treville gave a sharp jerk of his head. "See that you are." He sighed and shook his head. "All right, the team's had enough time to gossip. Get out there and start warm-ups."

Athos inclined his head and started towards the door, knowing Porthos and Aramis would follow, no matter how much they wanted to argue the decision. Better they argue with him than Treville.

The minute they were out of earshot, Aramis leaned in and hissed, "Athos, it isn't _fair,_ you shouldn't have to--"

"Better I get a warning than you two lose your scholarships," Athos said. He was angry, too: angry that Richelieu would get on their case for something so minor, angry that Treville didn't have a choice but to discipline them for it, angry that they had to just suck it up and take it--but he'd take the fall for them every time if it meant keeping them here, with him. 

"I hate being poor," Porthos growled, and Aramis reached around Athos to grip his shoulder, hard.

"Well, luckily one of us isn't and can take the fall for everyone else," Athos said, suddenly enormously weary of the whole thing. 

Aramis stopped him at the door to the studio, throwing a guarded glance inside at everyone else, then took Athos' arm and pulled him away to the side, out of view of the open door. Porthos followed, catching Aramis' leading glance, and his broad back blocked out the world from their conversation.

"Thank you," Aramis said abruptly, and his dark eyes were serious as he looked at Athos. He was still holding Athos' arm, and he was close so he could speak quietly, and Porthos was close so no one else would hear, and Athos' heart was jumping in his throat. "Athos--this is all my fault, I'm sorry." And he looked it--his face was set in lines of worry and apology and he was chewing on his lip, and Athos wondered if Aramis really thought Athos was going to be angry, was going to blame him for this. Athos didn't even know _how_ to be angry with him. Or with Porthos. Aramis, Porthos, and anger were oil and water in his mind.

"Just pay me back by not getting shitfaced at any more parties," he said, forcing one corner of his mouth up in an approximation of a smile, and Aramis' face relaxed into a grin.

"Please," Porthos added, clapping a hand on Aramis' shoulder, and the tension was broken. Aramis laughed, Athos let himself be pulled into a short, quick three-way hug, and then Treville barked behind them, "When you three have finished!"

Practice was everything Athos needed it to be. When Porthos closed the door of the fencing studio behind them, the world outside dropped away. Outside he was Athos the fuckup, Athos the disappointing son, Athos the king of terrible decisions, but in his jacket and mask, his foil in hand, he was someone better. Someone who could lead, someone who could teach, someone who could win.

They always did drills as a team--lunges, footwork, sprints, and Athos could lose himself in repetition, in just being part of the whole. No expectations, no pressure. As he went through the familiar motions, he felt the frustration of the morning, the tension of the night before melting away, and by the end of warm-ups he felt like himself again. 

Treville nodded to Athos, motioning him up to the front of the room, and he caught his own reflection in the strip of mirrors as he stepped up beside Treville. His shoulders were relaxed, his back straighter and his head high, and Athos had a strange moment of dissonance. He almost looked like someone he could respect.

"Right," he said, shaking it off, and turned to face his team. "Footwork drills were slow today, everyone, so we're doing some more until everyone at least is faking being awake." There was a universal groan, which Athos roundly ignored. "Impress me and then we'll break into disciplines for sparring." He could see Porthos and Aramis grinning out of the corner of his eye, and ignored that, too.

"You look much better," Porthos muttered to him in an undertone later, when Athos was finally satisfied and they were all moving into groups of their respective disciplines.

"That's the cruel and overbearing glorious leader we know and love," Aramis agreed. He clinked his épée against Porthos' saber, grinning wide at him with his tongue caught in his teeth, and Porthos shook his head, grinning.

Athos shoulder-checked him on purpose as he passed Aramis on the way to the rack that held their weapons, but he was flying inside. He certainly _felt_ much better.

D'Artagnan was coming along nicely, Athos decided as they faced off. He certainly had the raw talent, but he still wasn't thinking tactically enough. "You always have to have a plan," Athos said, tapping his blade against d'Artagnan's to distract him. "What's my next move going to be?" 

"Blocking," d'Artagnan said cheerfully, and lunged. But Athos had seen him shift his weight, and he parried easily, sending the point of his blade smoothly into d'Artagnan's chest in the same motion. 

"You gave yourself away," Athos said as they settled into a ready position again. "Watch me." His next lunge caught d'Artagnan clearly off guard, and the younger fencer barely managed to get out of the way, not even getting his foil up to parry. "See? No tells."

"I thought you said I had to plan," d'Artagnan said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, but don't plan so much you telegraph your every move. Part of planning means preparing for the unexpected." Athos did the exact same lunge, and this time d'Artagnan managed to parry it. "Now you know."

D'Artagnan rocketed forward, then, and they exchanged a flurry of attacks this time before Athos dropped low and got in under his guard, scoring the winning touch. D'Artagnan groaned in exasperation, tearing his mask off, and Athos tugged his own off, fixing d'Artagnan with one of his rarer smiles. "That was a good start," he said, and smiled wider when a small, pleased expression crept up d'Artagnan's face.

Lack of motion in the corner of his eye made him turn, then, and Athos realized the rest of the team had stopped their bouts to watch the two of them. Porthos and Aramis were beaming, and Athos gave them a _what are you looking at_ sort of glare before turning to the rest of the team and repeating what he'd said to d'Artagnan. Capitalizing on a teachable moment was at least _one_ thing he'd learned as an education major.

"He's going to be as good as you by next year," Aramis said after practice, when they were replacing their weapons in the racks and tugging off their heavy jackets. "If I don't steal him, that is." Aramis captained épée, and was notorious about stealing Athos' foilists away with the lure of heavier weapons and no right of way rules.

"Never gonna happen," Athos said, glaring at him, and put a protective arm in front of d'Artagnan as their younger friend sidled up to put his mask away. 

"There's always saber," Porthos said, waggling his eyebrows at d'Artagnan. "More exciting than foil, you know." Porthos captained saber, and was only slightly more discreet than Aramis about laying claims on the new recruits.

D'Artagnan smiled blandly at Aramis and Porthos. "I will fence foil until the day I die, gentlemen." He bumped his shoulder against Athos', and Athos decided that d'Artagnan was his absolute and total favorite.

\- - -

"I utterly despise d'Artagnan and rue the day he came into our lives," Athos said conversationally to Porthos that night, as they wove through the mass of students in the lower floor of the campus center. The lights were half-off, generic dance music blared from two oversized speakers at the front of the room, and the snack tables had already been picked over. Athos was going to strangle d'Artagnan when he found him.

"He was your favorite this afternoon," Porthos reminded him.

"That was before he talked Aramis into coming to this godforsaken Student Activities mixer." Athos sighed, stretching up onto his toes and trying to see over the heads of the people around him. "Do you see them anywhere?"

Porthos' considerable height was an asset in these situations, but in a dark and crowded room, even that didn't help, sometimes. "All I see are drunk people. I think half the campus must have pre-gamed this."

"It's an officially sanctioned mixer, of course they did." Athos sighed. It wasn't that they didn't _trust_ Aramis. The stakes were just a little bit higher now. Athos wasn't going to _not_ stick up for his friends just because a suspension threatened, but he'd really prefer not to have to punch someone two nights in a row.

"I see d'Artagnan," Porthos said, and started to peel off. "Meet you back here."

"Fine," Athos said, and tried to stay still as a sea of people buffeted him. It was loud and close, and all the calm he'd found that afternoon was rapidly draining away. Aramis had promised. He'd _promised_ he wasn't going to go to parties and get trashed anymore. 

"Athos!" It was Aramis, materializing out of nowhere and beaming at him. "You always show up right when I need you. C'mon." He didn't seem drunk, but Athos was still less than pleased. Not angry--just...less than pleased.

"Didn't you have reading to do tonight, Aramis?" Athos said over the music, refusing to budge as his friend tugged on his arm. "And didn't you make me a certain promise this afternoon?"

Aramis sighed. "Hand to God, Athos, I'm stone sober. I was just bored out of my damn mind reading in the library. Now will you please come over here? There's someone I want you to meet--she's a transfer, she's from Boston, too--"

"We're twenty miles from Boston, everyone's from there--"

"Yeah, but she was from Beacon Hill, you might even know her--"

"Oh, joy," Athos sighed (he so _loved_ seeing people he knew in high school), but he let Aramis drag him along anyway. Aramis _was_ sober, and he just looked like he was enjoying himself, so what was the harm? Then Athos spied Porthos over on the side of the room, d'Artagnan firmly in tow, and he tapped Aramis' shoulder to get his attention. "Let me just tell Porthos," he called over the music, and Aramis gave him a thumbs-up, sidling back through the crowd to wherever he'd left this girl.

Over three years, he and Porthos had developed a set of signals for situations exactly like this one. So when Athos caught Porthos' eye through the crowd, jerked his head in Aramis' direction, made a talking motion with one hand, and rolled his eyes pointedly, Porthos knew it meant _found him, wants me to talk to someone, oh God, save me._ Porthos grinned and nodded, and he and d'Artagnan started to make their way towards them.

Athos slipped back through the crowd the way Aramis had gone, feeling a little better now that he knew Porthos would come and rescue him soon enough. The familiar sinking feeling of dread he got every time he met someone who'd known him in the old days was starting to settle into his stomach. They always said something about Thomas, or something oblique and cruel about Athos' year off between high school and college, because old money lived to snip little pieces off each other. 

_If you'd just tell Porthos and Aramis, they'd help you avoid these people,_ said the nagging voice of common sense that sounded an awful lot like Constance, but Athos pushed it down. He'd have to explain, if he did that. He much preferred them not to know at all.

He finally saw Aramis ahead of him, and called his name as he drew closer. Get this over with, go home, go to bed. Aramis' back was to him, and he had his arm around a girl with long, dark, curly hair, she had an arm around his waist, and they were talking animatedly, their heads close together. Athos couldn't see her face, but something in her posture hit him like a punch under his sternum. 

Aramis' hand brushed her hair back, revealing the smooth, elegant, _familiar_ line of her neck, and Athos went cold all over. 

No.

Aramis turned, seeing him, and grinned, turning, his arm still locked around her shoulders. "Athos! This is Anne. Have you two met already?"

She smiled at him, her eyes glinting, and Athos could not breathe. He physically could not. "Oh, yes," she said, her contralto voice perfectly audible to him, even over the sounds of the music. He'd always be perfectly attuned to her voice. Even after four years, he couldn't help but hear. "Athos and I have known each other a long time, haven't we, Athos?"

The edges of the room blurred. Aramis was holding her. She was holding him. It was something out of his worst nightmare, Aramis and her, Aramis all over her, Aramis holding _her_ close and stroking her hair, his body leaning into hers and fitting itself around all her curves and planes, and Athos was drowning.

 _Always have a plan,_ he'd told d'Artagnan that afternoon. _Prepare for the unexpected._ He was such a fucking hypocrite.

He'd been preparing for this moment for four years, but the sight of her with Aramis, _his_ Aramis, drove every single ounce of rationality from his head, and all Athos wanted to do was block out everything happening around him. He was a pathetic excuse for a coach and a captain--couldn't even follow his own advice.

"Right," he said, his body forcing out the very last air he'd had, and he only inhaled on reflex. He couldn't remember how to breathe. "A long time."

Aramis' smile was fading--he knew something was wrong, and his eyes flicked quizzically to Anne. Anne was looking steadily at Athos, and the challenge, the coldness in her eyes, sent a stab of guilt and self-loathing straight through Athos' heart. 

Aramis opened his mouth, and suddenly Athos knew he absolutely could not stand to hear whatever question Aramis was about to ask. 

Athos did the only thing he could think of to do. He bolted.

-

"What fucking set it off this time?"

"I have no idea, I think it was that girl--Athos, love, are you hearing us? Say something."

"Athos, it's us, come on--oh, fuck, he's breathing, right?"

"He's bad, Porthos, _really_ bad--"

"I _know,_ Aramis, I have eyes--Athos, look up, come on--"

Athos lifted his head, and the motion set the entire room pitching underneath him. His stomach heaved, and he coughed once before his chest seized and he threw up on the cold tiled floor. His bedroom didn't have tiles, and anyway he'd locked the door. Where was he?

There were hands holding him up, heavy and comforting, and Anne had used to hold him like that, pushing his hair back and soothing him when he'd taken too much. Athos' stomach lurched for a totally different reason, and he heaved again, this time into the toilet they'd managed to drag him to.

"I'm going to get Constance--"

"Don't you dare, she'll have to call the ambulance."

"We need to call an ambulance anyway, Porthos, he's not okay--"

"No ambulance," Athos got out, the words slurred but audible. "I'm okay."

"You are _not,"_ and it was Aramis, higher up and further away. Aramis sounded frantic, and Athos remembered Anne's arm around Aramis' slender waist, the same place Athos had touched him the night before. He threw up again. His chest was burning, his eyes were stinging with tears, and he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. 

"Just get it all up," Porthos said, his chest vibrating against Athos' back, and he had to be the one holding Athos upright. "D'Artagnan, get him some water."

D'Artagnan. Fantastic. D'Artagnan had seen him puking his guts out and sobbing over a toilet. Athos shook his head, trying to clear it, and he could smell alcohol now, soaking him. The whole box of wine under his bed. That had to have been it. "I'm okay," he said again, taking care to speak more clearly this time. He wasn't, he knew he wasn't, he'd probably given himself alcohol poisoning, but he couldn't let them call the ambulance. Richelieu would suspend him. Fencing was the only thing that kept him fucking _sane._

"We thought you were _dead,_ Athos," Aramis hissed, and he was closer this time. Another hand pushed Athos' sweat-drenched hair back from his forehead, and Athos turned his face into it almost without thinking. Aramis drew in a sharp breath, then sighed, sounding tired and _old,_ and as Athos' eyes started to focus again, he could see Aramis leaning in close, holding his face like Athos was something better than he was. Everything hurt, his whole body--the parts of it he could feel, at least, and Athos closed his eyes again. It was easier than having to see Aramis nearly crying.

"Water," d'Artagnan said somewhere behind him, and Porthos guided Athos upright, lifting the water bottle to his lips like Athos was a baby needing to be fed. Athos was stupidly grateful for it, since even the slightest motion sent the world lurching underneath him like a ship in the storm. 

Now that he was slightly more conscious, the shame was starting to push down on him. He'd done it again. _Good job, Athos, can't go a whole month into the semester without nearly drinking yourself into a coma._

"You gonna be sick again?" Porthos asked him, and Athos shook his head. If he did, he could throw up in his own bed. He deserved that, after everything he'd put them through tonight, after Anne.

Anne. Maybe he _was_ going to be sick again.

He managed not to, after leaning over the toilet for a few minutes and fighting his body to keep everything in--he didn't have anything left in his stomach to throw up, anyway. Porthos poured more water into him, then stood and scooped Athos up into his arms, carrying him like he didn't weigh a thing. Only Porthos, Athos thought, and it was comforting. Only Porthos could carry him like this. No one else he'd ever known could. Not even Anne.

What was she _doing_ here?

Cool sheets, and he was in his bed. Porthos' warmth and bulk shifted around behind him, turning Athos onto his side and wrapping around his back. Someone put a blanket over them, and Athos could feel himself sinking back into blackness. _No,_ he thought in panic, trying to stay awake, and Aramis' slender hand caught his face again.

"I'm going to be watching," Aramis said, all traces of panic gone from his voice. He was calm, in control--steadying. "We'll all be. We're not going to let you slip away."

Athos nodded, sick with shame and hating himself more with every passing second. "I'm sorry," he managed to say, and tried to force his eyes open to see Aramis' face. It swam before him, just for a moment, tender and concerned, and he leaned his head back, trying to feel as much of Porthos as he could before he blacked out again. "You both deserve so much better than me."

"No such thing," Porthos murmured against the back of his neck, and Athos could have cried. 

Maybe he did. It didn't matter, either way. He'd been dangerously close to alcohol poisoning or an overdose enough times before to recognize how he was feeling now, and he figured he had a good chance of not waking up.

 _I probably owe her that,_ was his last coherent thought before everything faded again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER IMPORTANT NOTE: In real life, Porthos and Aramis would be making the WRONG decision in not calling an ambulance for Athos. If you're ever in their situation, with an unresponsive friend who's throwing up or incoherent, they almost definitely have alcohol poisoning and you should 100% call an ambulance for them even if they might get in trouble. Athos makes some utterly shitty decisions involving substances in this story, and because his friends don't know quite how bad the problem is, they enable him a little more than they would otherwise. idk I just want to be very clear that all the decisions being made here are terrible, and there will be fallout from them later. /disclaimer


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. (Athos is more than a little surprised there _is_ a morning after.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for recovery from an episode of serious alcohol abuse and mentions of a past death in the family.
> 
> And just to let everyone know, I don't have as much of a cushion built up on this as I'd like, so posting may be a bit slow for the next week or so as I deal with crunch time on a lot of projects at work. Don't think I've abandoned you! (I guess remember to subscribe to the story if you'd like to be notified when updates happen?)

The night passed in a haze. Athos would never remember all of it. Periods of blackness intercut with being held upright and made to drink, the heavy weight of people wrapping warm and solid around him, people talking in low voices, and at one point a soft voice, a woman's, and hands that could have been Anne's, if they hadn't been gentle in a way she'd never been. He cried then, just a little--for Anne, for himself, for Thomas, and she wiped his face, kissed his forehead, told him it was all right. He clung to the idea for a moment, that everything could ever be all right again--then he lost it, as everything faded back to black.

-

Athos woke to a room gray with predawn light. 

His desk lamp was on and cast a narrow cone of yellow light across the mess of his desk. He stared at the empty bottles of water, Gatorade, orange juice, all clearly bought from the vending machine in the lobby, for a long few moments before understanding. They'd been making him drink all night--waking him up so he wouldn't slip into a coma, making him drink so he wouldn't get dangerously dehydrated.

Every muscle in his body throbbed with pain, and his head was pounding, and he was sure he wouldn't even be able to lift his _foil,_ but he wasn't dead. 

He closed his eyes, feeling tears sting the edges, and took a deep breath. Something heavy was draped over his side. Athos barely had to shift before he recognized Porthos' familiar shape still pressed against him. It was Porthos' arm around him--Porthos had been holding him all night. 

Something hot and tender flooded up into his chest. Athos swallowed, hard, to force it down. Porthos' breath came warm and regular against the back of his neck, and Athos felt a wave of guilt to think that Porthos had to have been up all night. He'd have been jolted awake every time, if he'd been the one on the bed with Athos, as the others--

Wait. Others?

He opened his eyes and looked down the bed. Aramis sat on the floor, his head tilted back onto the mattress near Athos' legs, and he was asleep, too. Even in sleep, his forehead was creased with worry, and Athos could see Aramis' hands folded on his knees, drawn up to his chest. Something dark wrapped around Aramis' fingers. Athos stared at it, tracing the shapes, until he finally recognized worn wooden beads and a crucifix dangling down, swaying slightly with Aramis' breathing. Aramis' rosary. He'd fallen asleep praying. 

The hot, gentle feeling in his chest pulsed with his heartbeat, with the rhythm of Porthos' breathing, and it made him ache all over. Athos looked determinedly away--then blinked in surprise. Constance was curled up on his beanbag in the corner, draped in the brightly colored quilt she kept on her bed, and d'Artagnan slumped against her legs with his head resting on his chest. 

The strange half-vision he'd had of Anne in the middle of the night came rushing back, and Athos realized it had to have been Constance, not Anne, who'd comforted him. She could get in serious trouble for this, he thought with a sinking feeling--she was an RA, she was supposed to call an ambulance if someone was as sick as he'd been. But she'd stayed up with the others instead. And d'Artagnan... D'Artagnan was courting trouble as much as the others, but more than that, Athos hadn't wanted d'Artagnan ever to see him like this. He'd wanted to set an example, something good, or at least something better than this.

Aramis' phone lit up on the floor in the middle of the room, a chime like a doorbell slicing loudly through the silence of the room. Athos could see _TIMER - 00:00_ flashing on the screen, even as he squinted against the pain that lanced through his head at the shrillness of it.

Aramis jerked awake, Porthos twitched behind him, and d'Artagnan and Constance both started, their heads coming up sleepily. 

"Time for more?" d'Artagnan yawned, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.

Aramis swiped a hand at his phone, silencing it, and his rosary beads clattered against the screen. "Yeah," he muttered, reaching up to hang the beads around his neck, "he needs to drink something again."

 _"He's_ awake," Athos said.

Aramis' head whipped around, d'Artagnan and Constance scrambled out of the bean bag, and Porthos sat bolt upright behind him, sending the bed bouncing. Athos winced at the motion, pressing a hand to his head, then groaned in pain as Aramis flung himself on top of him and hugged him hard enough to crack his ribs. "Aramis, please," he coughed.

Aramis sat back hurriedly, rubbing hard at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Sorry, sorry, it's just-- _Athos--"_

"You," Porthos said, and Athos looked up to see Porthos resting his face in one hand, "are the luckiest fucking idiot on the planet."

"I know," Athos said, his voice scraping rough on his throat. "Lucky you're all my friends." He reached over to grip Porthos' other wrist. Porthos dropped his hand and gave Athos a weary, fond look, reaching down to grip his shoulder tightly. 

"How do you feel?" Constance asked, sitting down on the bed beside Aramis' other side. "Dizzy, nauseous, anything like that?"

"No more than your usual hangover." That was a flat lie, but they'd already worried enough about him. Athos rolled over onto his back, testing the motion, and it didn't send huge waves of sick feelings through him. Progress. "Constance..."

She smiled faintly at him. "I was the only person with quarters for the vending machine. Otherwise I don't think I would have found out at all." She held up a hand to forestall his apology. "You are the only person I'd ever bend the rules for, Athos, but please don't put me in this position again." 

He sighed. "I never wanted to put any of you in this position." He swallowed hard, and looked around at all of them. "Would you all mind refreshing my memory as to exactly what happened?" He needed to know exactly how bad he'd gotten. He needed to remember it for next time.

Porthos settled down beside him again, propping himself up on one elbow and staring down at Athos with a crease in his forehead identical to Aramis'. "You bolted from the party before any of us could follow, locked yourself in here, and drank an entire box of wine in an hour."

"D'Artagnan picked the lock," Aramis supplied, flashing a weary smile up at d'Artagnan, who leaned against the desk looking nearly faint with relief. "He's quite useful to have around."

"I'm impressed," Athos said, and smiled at d'Artagnan. 

D'Artagnan smiled back, a little hesitantly. "I hope you're not angry."

"You saved my life. I'd be extremely ungrateful if I were angry." D'Artagnan's smile widened, and Athos looked back at Aramis. "And then?"

Aramis sighed, slumping forward and resting his elbows on his knees, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "You were on the floor. For a minute there, we thought..." Aramis' voice trailed off, and he gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like it was covering a sob. Athos swallowed, reaching out and touching his arm. Aramis twitched, but didn't look up.

"Nevermind what we thought," Porthos said severely, and Aramis nodded, his face still hidden from view. "We dragged you to the bathroom and got you to throw up as much as you could, did _not_ call an ambulance because apparently we're fucking stupid, and stayed up all night making sure you didn't die."

Constance sighed and put an arm around Aramis. "Every half hour," she said, and up close Athos could see how tired she looked, how tired they all looked. "Took it in turns."

"That was from about midnight until now," d'Artagnan finished. "And it's--" He checked his watch. "Six."

Athos let his breath out slowly between his teeth. They stayed up all night for him. If he were fortunate enough to stay in their lives for the rest of his, he'd never be able to repay them enough. Something fragile and warm-feeling bloomed in the pit of his chest.

Aramis lifted his head at last, and his face was set, his voice low and controlled when he spoke. "Will you tell us why, Athos?"

Ice plunged into his chest and froze any feeling trying to grow. Athos couldn't breathe. He couldn't tell them.

"Hey." Porthos' hand smoothed over his shoulder, trailing warmth in its wake. "Athos, come back."

 _Come back._ Porthos was too damn perceptive sometimes.

He opened his eyes, and Porthos was leaning over him, his hand tight on Athos' opposite shoulder so his arm lay across all of Athos' chest. Grounding him. "Athos, it's okay. We're not going to be upset, we're not gonna judge you."

"It's your past," d'Artagnan said softly. "We care about who you are now."

Athos shook his head, not sure if he was saying no, they wouldn't, or no, he couldn't say, or no, it wasn't the past. It was all so tangled-up.

"Was it the girl at the party?" Aramis asked, his voice still even. "Anne, or whoever?"

Athos' heart seized in his chest. 

"What girl?" he dimly heard Constance ask, heard Aramis answer quietly, "She said she worked for Student Affairs, she knew Athos," but blood was rushing in his ears too loudly for him to pay any attention. He couldn't tell them. He _couldn't._ They'd see him differently, of course they would--he'd never seen himself the same way since it happened; how could they?

Porthos' arm tightened around him, and then he felt d'Artagnan's long fingers close reassuringly around his wrist.

"Athos?" Aramis asked, somehow both impossibly gentle and impossible to deny, and Athos swallowed down the lump rising in his throat and tried to think of an answer.

"We used to date," he said finally, his mind racing three steps ahead of whatever he was saying. _Please, let it be enough for them. Please don't make me say it all._ "We were together when--" His voice was going to break if he finished that sentence. Athos swallowed again, harder. "When my brother died." He said the rest in as flat and emotionless a tone as he could manage. "We ended very badly. I was not in a healthy place. We haven't seen each other since, and it brought it all back."

_Please, please, let it go at that, Aramis._

Aramis sighed, and he reached out to push Athos' sweaty hair back from his face. "I can't imagine." To Athos' shock, and to the delight of his traitorous heart, Aramis' hand trailed down the side of his face, brushing his cheek. His eyes snapped up to Aramis', and found them dark and sad and warm.

One corner of Aramis' mouth curled up slightly. "Just promise us that next time, you won't lock us out."

"Or, y'know, there could be no next time," Porthos suggested, and he relaxed down beside Athos. "That's also fine." He didn't move his arm, and Athos surprised himself by not wanting him to. This whole episode seemed to have unlocked some long-buried desire for touch in him. He wanted Aramis to keep touching his face, Porthos to keep holding him, Constance's back to stay pressed against his leg, even d'Artagnan's hand still around his wrist. He wanted everything.

"Are you going to be all right if you see her again?" d'Artagnan asked, frowning up at Athos. "If she's here on campus..."

Athos thought about it. "I'll...I'll be fine."

Aramis made an impatient sound. "Athos, you'd say you were fine if you'd been _shot."_

"It was the shock." And the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he wasn't lying. It was the surprise, the way she'd crept up on him (the way she'd been draped around Aramis, but he wasn't going to dwell on that), the first time after everything in between. "I can behave like a rational human being if we happen to cross paths again, I promise." He cleared his throat, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible. "It's six-thirty; I think you've all been up long enough, yes?"

Porthos and Aramis gave him a hard look, both clearly seeing through his transparent attempt at diversion, but then Aramis sighed and let it go. "We're not leaving you alone, if that's what you mean." He pushed at Athos' legs until Athos slid over closer to the wall side of the bed, Porthos moving with him. 

D'Artagnan passed him a bottle of Gatorade, and Athos dutifully drank down a third of it.

"Good," Aramis said, and gave Athos another heart attack by laying down beside him. "D'Artagnan and Constance have morning classes; we have afternoon ones. We'll trade off." He stretched, putting one hand on Athos' shoulder, overlapping Porthos'.

"We already emailed your profs telling them you'd gotten food poisoning," Porthos said, resting his head down beside Athos. "In case it's completely obvious you were puking your guts out when you get back to class."

"Clever," Constance said grudgingly, wrapping her blanket around herself as she and d'Artagnan headed for the door. "Athos, we'll see you later."

And then it was just the three of them.

Athos' heart pounded in triple-time as he lay between Aramis and Porthos, with Porthos sharing his pillow and Aramis curled up against his shoulder, their hands crossed over his heart. It was too perfect, too fragile and gentle and caring. He was terrified he was going to wreck it.

"Stop panicking, please," Aramis sighed, "we can feel your heart racing." He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Athos, his gorgeous face inscrutable. He was so close, barely six inches from Athos' face. They got this close regularly, in friendly hugs and in practice bouts, but never before in his _bed,_ touching all down one side of their bodies and with an arm across his chest. With Aramis looking down at him with an expression Athos didn't know how to read.

"We all have demons, Athos," Aramis said. His dark eyes bored a hole into Athos, through his defenses, right to the last part of him that was tender and unscarred by cynicism and ill-use. "We don't think any less of you. Just please, for the love of God, come to us next time instead of self-medicating yourself into a coma." Something shifted in his face, then, something Athos didn't understand, and Aramis closed his eyes, shaking his head. He bit his lip, looking away, and Athos wanted to reach up to him, to drag him down and kiss away the worried furrow in his brow, the bite mark in the softness of his bottom lip. 

He didn't. He'd done enough damage for one day.

Porthos' hand rested heavy on his heart, and Athos looked over at him, desperate to ground himself, to find some dry land where he was drowning. Porthos' face was nearly as hard to read as Aramis', though, and his eyes had a hint of shine in the growing light from the dawn outside. "Do you have any idea," he whispered, "what it'd do to us if we lost you?"

Athos shook his head, stunned into silence, and Porthos sighed.

"Think about it," he said, sounding weary, and lay back down. 

"It may come as a shock, Athos," Aramis said, his voice forcedly light as he finally looked back at him, "but you actually matter to a few people."

Athos opened his mouth, then closed it. "I'll do my best to remember."

Aramis nodded, and his thumb traced once over the thin material of Athos' shirt, brushing the edge of Porthos' hand. All of Athos' nerves lit up like fire in its wake, and Aramis stared down at him with a strange, intense look in his eyes. 

Athos stared up at Aramis, paralyzed with breathless wanting and freezing fear. _Kiss me,_ he prayed, then in the same breath thought _no, no, God, please don't, I couldn't bear it_ \--but, _fuck,_ he _wanted_ it--

Aramis sighed and lay back down, and the moment was gone. Athos closed his eyes, disappointed and relieved all at once, and his head rolled to the side, his whole body nerveless with the release of tension. 

He opened his eyes, and his nose was barely an inch from Porthos'. Porthos, who looked just as frozen as Athos had felt, and there was an aching despair on his face that lanced straight through Athos' heart.

For the first time, Athos realized that for one of them to be happy with Aramis, the other would have to be miserable.

 _No,_ he thought wildly, frantic, and his hand fisted in Porthos' shirt. _No, no, can't lose you, can't lose either of you, not over this, not for my stupid heart,_ and some of his panic and fear must have shown on his face, because Porthos' face gentled instantly. He flattened the palm he aleady had on Athos' chest, his fingertips digging in slightly in silent reassurance, and Athos took a deep breath, sinking back into his pillows. 

_I'm sorry,_ he mouthed at Porthos, and Porthos sighed, shaking his head minutely. He shrugged one shoulder, flicking an eyebrow at Aramis, and his meaning was clear. 

_It's just the way he is._

Yes, Athos thought, and closed his eyes. Just the way Aramis was--caring and carelessly affectionate, generous to a fault, forever touching and forever too close for comfort. Like last night, stroking Athos' face as he threw up, nearly in tears because he thought Athos was dying.

It was only then, as his thoughts drifted back over the night before, that he remembered when they'd found him, and Aramis' voice echoed back faintly in his ears. 

_Athos, love, are you hearing us?_

He drew in a long breath, then let it out very, very slowly. Love. 

_Just the way he is,_ he reminded himself, then curled himself into Porthos and tried to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort and a confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter besides oblique references to past drug use and past incarceration. Idek if those are even things to warn for but I just wanna be safe.

Even the changing of the guard, as it were, wasn't enough to wake Athos fully once he'd fallen asleep. His body must have wanted it. He came awake for a few moments when Porthos crawled over him to get off the bed, and he reached out for him with a murmur of discontent. He sounded like a sad puppy, some part of him realized, but he was too exhausted and sick to care.

"Later," Porthos promised, catching his hand and squeezing it. "D'Artagnan and Constance are here, they'll stay."

"Yes, but will they cuddle?" he heard Aramis quip from somewhere behind Porthos, and Athos' sleepy, hungover self reached out for Aramis, too, making another pitiful canine sound. He didn't want them to go.

The bed shifted, and a longer, leaner figure lay down beside him, all sharp elbows and bony angles, and Athos was tired and touch-starved enough to curl into d'Artagnan. "Come back after class," he said blearily to Aramis and Porthos, and then he was asleep again.

When he opened his eyes, what felt like only moments later, he was holding onto one of d'Artagnan's arms, his face pressed to his younger friend's shoulder, and Constance had curled up at the foot of the bed. Both Constance and d'Artagnan were dozing, and the shades were drawn across the windows on the opposite wall. From the color of the light, he guessed it was about three in the afternoon, maybe four. 

Athos lay back slightly from d'Artagnan, a little embarrassed, and d'Artagnan shifted at his movement. The younger boy lifted his head, blinking at Athos, then smiled. "Hey. Feeling better?"

"Yes, actually," Athos said, and it was only a little bit of a lie. He still felt like shit, but he'd felt like death warmed over when he woke earlier in the morning, and 'shit' was progress. 

"You lying?" Constance yawned from somewhere around his ankles, stretching and sitting up.

"I do feel _better._ I did not say I felt _well."_

D'Artagnan chuckled, leaning back into the pillows and stretching. "You do sound more like yourself."

Athos smiled. "Cantankerous and snarky?"

"Exactly." D'Artagnan patted his arm and sat up, shaking his head like an oversized puppy, and Athos and Constance shared an amused look. He looked around at the two of them. "Hungry? I could go down to the dining hall and make some sandwiches."

"Yes, please," Constance said, smiling at him. "Athos?"

He wasn't, but the word _sandwiches_ happened and suddenly he was ravenous. "I could eat."

D'Artagnan's grin widened, and he unwound himself from the bed, sleepy limbs an uncoordinated mess as he made his way across Athos' room. _Puppy_ was the only thing Athos could think, and he and Constance shared another grin. "Be back in a few," d'Artagnan yawned, and then he was gone.

"Utterly ridiculous," Constance said, and Athos knew her well enough to see that for the fond compliment it was. She smiled at Athos, sliding closer to him on the bed, and the soft look on her face made his heart twist. "Glad you're on the mend."

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, and he looked away, sitting up and letting his sheets pool at his waist. "Thank you," he said, ashamed of how quiet his voice sounded.

She patted his knee, the compassion in her eyes too much to handle. "We've all had our bad days," she said. "That's all this was, Athos. Just a bad day."

He didn't know how to thank her enough for the reassurance that she was trying to give him. He nodded, trying to accept it, that this would be how his friends would see it--just one day, a bad night that they'd all move on from. He hadn't irreparably damaged himself in their eyes.

He opened his mouth to thank her again, but what came out instead was, "Why did you let Aramis borrow your shirt for the frat party?"

She blinked at him. Athos swore a blue streak inside his head. "It's just that," he floundered on, "you normally disapprove of drunken benders, so I wasn't sure why you wanted to clothe him for one."

Constance shrugged. "He asked," she said. "And I'm bored with always watching drunken benders from the sidelines."

There was something in her voice that hinted around anger, and Athos got the feeling she wasn't looking at his rug when she stared down at the floor. "Everything okay?" he asked tentatively.

Constance shrugged, but her face was set in frustrated lines, and Athos decided not to push it. Then she shook herself and flashed him her usual smile. "Just a little trouble in paradise. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Jacques?" Athos, like the others, generally pretended Constance's boyfriend didn't exist, except in the abstract, but it seemed pretty evident what was bothering her.

She rolled her eyes. "It's nothing. He's coming up for Friends and Family weekend next Saturday." She chewed on her lip for a moment, then added, "He wasn't _going_ to," in a very clipped tone.

Athos knew better than to say anything about _that._ "D'Artagnan will get to meet him," he said in a noncommittal sort of voice. 

"Yeah." Constance's eyebrows drew down at the edges, and she looked so _sad_ for a moment. Athos almost wanted to ask, but then Constance shook herself again and rested a hand on his leg. "You missed French today, do you want to work on the translation together tonight?" They were working on a translation of _Cyrano de Bergerac_ in pairs for their semester project, and Athos was impossibly grateful Constance was sticking with French for another year so he didn't have to deal with some incompetent. 

Athos nodded, letting her change the subject, and they talked quietly about their project, slipping in and out of French, until d'Artagnan came back with a plate of sandwiches.

The talk turned to fencing before too long, as it tended to when Athos and d'Artagnan got going. "Porthos and Aramis aren't really going to try to steal me away to saber or épée, are they?" d'Artagnan asked Athos around a mouthful of turkey and Swiss.

Athos smiled and shook his head. "They'll talk about it, but you're an excellent foil fencer. They want the team to win as much as we do." Plus, he would stab them if they even tried to lure the boy away. So there was that, too.

"Shaping up to be a good season?" Constance asked, smiling at them.

Athos wiped his hands on a napkin, considering the question, then nodded. "We lost a lot of good seniors, but the rest of us finally have a few good years of varsity bouts under our belt."

D'Artagnan grinned at Constance, jerking his head at Athos. "He's planning for us to sweep Nationals."

Constance laughed. "Big dreams, Athos."

"We can do it," Athos insisted. He'd nearly qualified for the national tournament last year, and if they improved enough over the season, he, Porthos, and Aramis at least would have qualifying in the bag. He trusted their natural competitiveness to carry them the rest of the way. "At the very least, we'll utterly destroy regionals. Especially now we have d'Artagnan, who will be excellent once he gets used to the mind games." 

D'Artagnan laughed and blushed a little. Constance grinned at him, and his blush deepened. Athos did them the courtesy of pretending not to see. He was starting to get an idea, though, of why Constance was having a little friction with her boyfriend.

"Constance, when are you going to join the women's team?" Athos asked her, purposefully breaking the moment when Constance and d'Artagnan had looked at each other for just a few heartbeats too long. The old question was just the right thing to break her out of it, and she laughed, shoving at his knee.

"When you stop asking me. I've told you, Athos, I just don't have time." Even as a junior, Constance was already a student lab supervisor in the Computer Science department, and she had a new project or app in development every week. That didn't stop Athos from asking, and he knew it didn't stop her from considering it. She came to every one of their home meets, and Athos saw the look on her face every time one of the women's fencers utterly destroyed her opponent. 

Constance would be an excellent fencer. She was completely vicious and took no prisoners. Athos just needed to find the right arguments.

"But you'd be so good!" d'Artagnan wheedled, reaching across Athos' legs and taking Constance's hand. "At least come to open practice next weekend."

"It's Family and Friends weekend, I can't," Constance sighed, swinging their joined hands back and forth. "Jacques is coming up, and I've got that project presentation--which you're all coming to, _right?"_ she added, fixing them both with a steely look. Athos and d'Artagnan both nodded swiftly, and Constance hummed in assent, nodding her head. Then a tiny smile stole across her lips. "I think you're going to like it," she said, and her smile widened into a full-fledged grin.

"We've liked everything so far," Athos said, and it wasn't a lie. Constance had been programming phone apps for six months or so now, and her creations were, without exception, flawless. Athos' favorites were a group messaging app they used daily and a scheduling app that had been single-handedly responsible for Aramis passing biology.

She sniffed. "Flatterer." She was pleased, though, he could tell. Breaking into a male-dominated field, especially when you couldn't afford to take unpaid internships, was no picnic--but, again, Constance was totally vicious and took no prisoners. 

Athos finished his last sandwich and set the plate on the floor. He stretched, feeling an ungodly number of things in his shoulders and back pop, and sighed. "I should probably get out of bed and turn myself back into a person, shouldn't I?" He was feeling a lot more human with a meal in him, and as much as his head still ached, he had a feeling a shower would probably help a lot of it. 

"Yes," Constance and d'Artagnan said in unison, and they each put a hand on his back and propelled him out of the bed. They summarily ignored his pathetic groaning, which Athos supposed was the reason they were his friends.

He grabbed a change of clothes and his shower caddy and staggered blearily to the shower. What happened next was not pretty--he nearly fell down twice just trying to wash his fucking hair--but by the end of it, he was clean, and did, in fact, feel much better.

Aramis and Porthos were back when he returned to his room. Athos' heart did a funny leap when he opened the door and found them all sitting there, laughing and joking and filling his space with humor and affection.

Aramis looked up when the door opened, and his smile was brighter than the afternoon sun streaming in through the window. "Athos! You're up and functioning!"

"Wow, you even look human again," Porthos said, grinning up at him and reaching up a hand from where he and Aramis sat on the floor. 

Athos went willingly down, taking Porthos' hand and letting himself be pulled down between them. Sandwiched between their reassuring solidity, with Aramis' arm draped affectionately around his shoulders and Porthos' hand heavy on his leg, Athos felt warm in a way even the shower hadn't managed to make him.

The five of them spent a quiet afternoon drifting between the common room, the dining hall, and Athos' room, doing homework, eating dinner, and bickering about the order in which d'Artagnan should watch the six Star Wars movies, as a first-time viewer. ("I cannot _believe_ you haven't seen _any_ of them," Aramis said, shaking his head. "Even Porthos has seen them, and he grew up on the fucking _streets."_ As a matter of long habit, he ducked just in time to miss Porthos' casual smack to the back of his head.) 

They were getting ready to pack up for the night, collecting scattered books and pencils (that had been used as projectiles when the Star Wars argument got heated) from Athos' bedroom floor, when Athos realized everyone was going to go back to their own rooms. Intellectually, of course he'd realized that, but actually _knowing_ filled him with a cold dread. His bed was fucking tiny, but the thought of having to fill it all by himself was chilling. He'd gotten so used to just having them all there.

"Goodnight, then," he said, watching Constance slide her French notes back into her bag. 

"Goodnight," Constance and d'Artagnan said, but Porthos' head came up at the sound of his voice. 

He tilted his head slightly, pausing in trying to impose order on his Western Civ notes. "You gonna be okay?"

Aramis glanced up, too, concern plain on his face, and Athos was torn between assuring them he'd be fine and caving, just for one more night. This was utterly ridiculous, he told himself. He was going to have to sleep alone eventually. Why drag it out?

He just slept so much better when they were there.

"Yeah, fine," he said, and hated himself for it.

"If you're still not feeling all right, one of us can stay," Aramis said. 

Athos' entire body screamed at him to say yes, to spend another night safe with Aramis, with Porthos.

"No, I feel a lot better," he lied, pushing his translation into some kind of pile and dropping it off the side of the bed. "You all deserve a night in your own beds."

Porthos and Aramis were giving him strange looks, but eventually they all took him at his word. When the door closed behind Aramis, Athos wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that he could convincingly fake being all right again.

He went through the motions of getting ready for bed--he changed into the old shirt he'd stolen from Porthos and dragged himself down to the bathroom to brush his teeth, but none of it seemed to make him even remotely tired. He lay back down in bed, his mind whirling over the past day and a half. His thoughts kept going back to bathroom, when he'd been sick and semi-conscious.

They'd held him up. They'd cared for him. No one had ever really done that before, not Anne, certainly. Or--well, she had, but in the wrong kind of way. He'd been dependent on her for everything. Aramis and Porthos didn't make him feel like he needed them to function. He just enjoyed functioning a lot more when they were around. 

And that train of thought led straight back to Anne. She was here. Why? And why _now,_ after so long? Was she just here to play mind games with him? Or was she here to try and take everything away from him, the way he'd done to her?

 _That_ thought was enough to banish any hope of sleep. 

It was almost one when someone knocked very quietly on his door. Athos still wasn't asleep. He hadn't even turned off his desk lamp. He was just staring at the ceiling, his head and stomach churning. The knock came again, so quietly he wasn't sure he'd heard it and not imagined it.

He frowned and rolled over. "Yeah?" he called softly.

The door cracked open. It was Aramis. "Hey," he said quietly, and pushed the door open further. Porthos was with him, and Athos' heart jumped in his chest. They both looked slightly abashed, and they were in their pajamas--Porthos in his _Dumas Musketeers_ sweatpants with his fencing hoodie over his bare chest, Aramis in a faded L.A. Kings Stanley Cup shirt and the loose pants covered in Valentine's hearts Athos and Porthos had gotten him as a joke sophomore year.

"So this is going to sound totally ridiculous," Porthos said, looking nervous.

"But we couldn't sleep," Aramis sighed. He pushed a hand through the mess of his hair, looking anywhere but at Athos. "You nearly stopped breathing enough times last night that--"

"We're gonna need to be sure you're okay at least one more night," Porthos finished, and Athos wondered if they'd rehearsed this conversation in the hallway. It sounded like it. 

"Sorry," Aramis added, not sounding sorry at all.

For a second, Athos couldn't breathe for relief. He flipped back his blanket to avoid having to speak, hoping the look on his face would say enough.

Aramis and Porthos both smiled, looking relieved, too. They scrambled into his bed, Aramis climbing over Athos to land on the wall side and Porthos taking the edge. When all three of them were conscious and sober and caring about appearances, it was a little more difficult to negotiate positions, but they managed it all right. Athos ended up half on top of Porthos' chest, with Aramis spooned up against his back. It should not have been as comfortable as it was. When they were all arranged to their satisfaction, Porthos leaned over and switched off the lamp.

"Stay as long as you like," Athos whispered. It was easier in the dark.

"We intend to," Aramis murmured against his back.

Athos fell asleep in seconds. He didn't dream.

\- 

There was no time for slow, sleepy wakeups Wednesday morning. Athos had already missed one day of class, and while he probably could have skipped Wednesday without too many consequences, he didn't want to fall too far behind. He'd had enough crippling anxiety attacks for one lifetime. 

Porthos and Aramis dragged him out of bed at eight, all of them racing to shower and grab a bite before their nine o'clock classes. Athos moved slower than usual, still achy and wool-headed from the aftereffects of Monday night, and he just barely managed to make it to the daycare center for professors' children by nine.

His education seminar met at the daycare center twice a week. It was the only one of his classes Athos had never skipped once. (The _yet_ always lingered, but he did his best to push it aside.) He always edged on being late, he thought dryly as he skidded through the door, but he always showed up.

"Athos!" came the cry, and he smiled for what felt like the first time in days. 

"Hello, Freddie, Macy," he said, barely managing to keep his balance as two enthusiastic four year-olds glomped onto his legs. "I missed you."

"You look really bad, Athos," Macy said with the keen eye and lack of tact of the very young. 

Athos glanced up and caught Professor Connolly's eye. She gave him a look--a very knowing one--and he winced, flashing an apologetic grimace in response. "I was sick," he told Macy, looking back down at her. "In fact, I'm still a little sick. So if we can use indoor voices all morning, I'd be very grateful."

"Does your head hurt?" Freddie asked, his big eyes grave. Athos nodded solemnly. He caught his classmates snickering from where they sat with the rest of the kids, and he would have flipped them off if there hadn't been toddlers everywhere. Freddie took his hand, thankfully saving him from using it for anything vulgar, and dragged him over to the storytime rug. "Daddy rubs mommy's head when hers hurts. I can rub yours."

Athos eased himself to the floor, trying not to wince too obviously as his achy muscles protested. "That's very nice of you, Freddie. Would you like to do it while we read?"

Again, it was utterly ridiculous. Still. As he and Macy sounded out consonants and Freddie turned his hair into something resembling a fauxhawk, Athos felt more like himself than he had since waking up on the bathroom floor.

He tried to hold on to that feeling after class, as he followed the path that wound along the edge of campus from the daycare to the campus center. It was tree-lined, a little secluded, and while being alone normally wasn't the best for Athos' state of mind, right now it felt all right. He was good at what he did, he reminded himself, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulders. His students were great. They were almost reading on their own, they were counting and coloring and sharing, and they liked him. They didn't dread coming to daycare; they were always happy to be there, learning with him. That was what mattered. That counted.

Days like this were the only times he had a clear picture of the future. Normally he felt like he was just stumbling through, trying to get through the day, the week, the semester without failing too terribly. There wasn't any time to think about what he was going to do with his life when just getting out of bed was a major accomplishment.

But days like today, when it was nice out and his students were doing well and he'd woken up warm and surrounded by his friends, he could think about it, a little. He could see himself as a teacher, maybe a coach, maybe still fencing. Maybe New York, maybe Cambridge--not that he _really_ wanted to stay near Boston, but Porthos and Aramis both had their eyes on Harvard for grad school, and Athos could see if his old fencing school needed staff...

The thoughts buoyed him up and carried him all the way to the campus center. He was coasting on good feelings as he headed to the coffee bar--which was the only reason why he didn't shut down in a panic when he saw Anne waiting in line.

Instead, a strange sense of calm settled over him. He wasn't even surprised, really. He was sort of expecting her.

She looked good. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, and she had her favorite red scarf on. He wondered if it was true, that she was working for Student Affairs--she was dressed to work in an office, in a dark cardigan and matching skirt and tights. Something obscurely painful clenched in his chest as he stared at her. She looked too good for where she'd been. 

Where he'd put her.

She got her coffee and turned, and then she saw him. Their eyes met, and she smiled. She took a sip of her coffee and walked over to him, her whole body entirely relaxed and casual. "Hello again, Athos."

"Hello, Anne." His heart beat harder in his chest, but it wasn't racing, running away with him.

"By yourself?" Her glass-green eyes slid across the campus center. "I heard you were inseparable from those friends of yours."

Something clicked into place. Athos tilted his head. "Is that why you found Aramis at that party?"

"Well, I didn't think you'd be there," she laughed. "I had to do _something_ to get your attention." She took another sip of coffee, and even though her laugh was playful, her eyes were cold and calculating, a predator's eyes, over the lid of her cup. 

He smiled faintly, a smile that didn't reach the creases of his eyes. He didn't really feel like playing the game today. "What are you doing here, Anne?"

Her smile faded from playful to something chillier. "I work here now, Athos. We did want to come here together, didn't we?"

He ignored the second part of what she'd said. He couldn't think about that right now (about them curled up on the balcony of his bedroom, making plans for college together, sharing a cigarette and cuddling close). He let his own smile match hers, cold and distant. "I didn't think you could work at a university with a criminal record." 

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Dean Richelieu's taken me under his wing. He's a big believer in rehabilitation, and he has a lot of pull in this state. Friends with the governor and all. I wrote him, and he got my sentence reduced. Now I'm here." Her voice was clipped and short, and he felt a guilty little thrill at the dangerous look on her face. He'd always loved that look, even when it was fixed at him. "I'm auditing a few classes. I might see you and your _friends_ in some of them."

"Stay away from them." He didn't even bother trying to make it sound pleasant. It came out as a growl. He couldn't stand the thought of her near Aramis, near Porthos, near--a chill settled in the pit of his stomach--d'Artagnan.

She didn't say a word, just smiled, and Athos felt a stab of dread. "You look terrible, darling," she said abruptly, her eyes sliding over his pale face and the shadows under his eyes. Her smile turned poison-sweet. "Fell off the wagon again?"

His stomach flipped. She always knew the softest, most unprotected places to cut him.

"Or more accurately," she continued, her cold smile triumphant when she saw him reduced to silence, "fell off it and got dragged behind it for a few miles. Especially from what I've heard. You should hear the stories they tell about you at home."

The world seemed to be tilting under his feet. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, trying to make it stop. He was pretty sure he knew what they said about him back home. His parents had done a good job of covering it up, pretending nothing had happened, but that was the thing about gossipy, incestuously wealthy communities. They always knew. "When did you hear those stories?" His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Do they let you take vacations from prison now?" 

"You should know." Her lip curled slightly. "You put me there."

"And you put me in the mental ward." He held his ground, glared her down. He was proud of himself for that. "Haven't we done enough to each other?"

She smiled thinly. He could lose himself in the freezing stare of her eyes. "No," she said, and took another sip of her coffee. "There's still so much we've barely scratched the surface of."

He wanted to scream. He wanted to lash out, wanted to yell and hit and feel her nails rake across his cheek when she slapped him, wanted to drag her body to his and kiss her, wanted her to throw him down on a table and fuck him in the middle of the student center with everyone watching. He wanted to take whatever she gave him and let her numb everything he was feeling, like she always had done, like she was so good at doing.

He wanted to drown with her again. 

His vision started to gray around the edges, and her voice pierced his thoughts like thousands of needles. "You look so tense, darling." She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "I might have something to take the edge off, if you need it."

She'd intended it to break him. He knew that tone of voice. It was the tone she used to throw his vulnerabilities back in his face, remind him that only she could make him better. It was supposed to be a whip to cow him.

Instead, it was cold water to the face.

Never again.

He drew himself up and fixed an bland, emotionless smile on his face. "Three and a half years and you're still peddling the same trash, Anne." Victory surged hot in his mouth when she blinked, the only trace of surprise she'd ever show. She didn't know him as well as she thought she did anymore. "If you'll excuse me."

He turned away, and without her eyes on his, the spell broke. He could breathe again, but his calm had fled, too. His hands shook, and he reached up and grabbed onto the straps of his backpack. He could win this little battle. He could walk away, find his friends, be safe for now.

"See you around, Athos," she called after him, her voice mocking. She'd seen him shaking. She knew he wasn't as sturdy as he pretended to be.

Athos closed his eyes and kept walking. He had to go to French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slow one (with very little OT3; mea culpa), but stuff should pick up next chapter during Family and Friends weekend. It's about to go down. Thanks everybody for the kind words and for waiting so patiently! My insane work schedule has settled a bit, so hopefully the next chapter won't be as long of a wait.
> 
> also I may end up adding chapter titles, idk?? they may be lyrics. there may be a fanmix forthcoming on my tumblr with the next chapter. guys idek this thing is a black hole.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos can't handle mornings on his own. Unrelated to previous: a very uncomfortable breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter, but it's been a long time since the last update and I didn't want y'all to think I'd abandoned you.

The looming specter of Family and Friends Weekend did nothing for Athos' state of mind over the next week. He threw himself into fencing, adding an extra half hour to the team's evening sparring sessions so they'd look good for open practice Saturday afternoon. Open practice got them a decent number of new members every year, and it was a good way to get volunteers for on-campus tournaments. Sometimes parents came and cut an impressed check after seeing Athos' carefully-prepared bouts. Open practice mattered.

If Aramis and Porthos noticed a particularly feverish pace to Athos' preparations this year, they didn't say anything. By now, they knew he had a tendency to throw himself into one thing to distract himself from another. As long as he ate and slept enough, and didn't drink (much) more than he usually did, they let him alone. They didn't pry to figure out what, exactly, he was distracting himself _from._

Athos was disgustingly grateful. There was no good way to explain him and Anne to them, and the longer they _didn't_ ask, the longer he had to figure out how to make himself _not_ sound like the worst human being who'd ever walked the planet. He had a feeling Constance had told them about the way he'd turned up to French pale and shaking after the confrontation in the coffee bar, but aside from sitting extra-close to him at dinner and accidentally-on-purpose falling asleep in his room again that night, neither Aramis nor Porthos said a word about it.

Their silence often said a lot more than their words, anyway.

Saturday morning dawned gray and drizzly, as mid-October mornings in Massachusetts sometimes could, and Athos woke alone in his bed. Aramis and Porthos had slowly stopped spending _every_ night in his room, and Athos tried not to miss it too much. They'd still stumble into the bathroom at the same time, mumble good mornings around mouthfuls of toothpaste or the roar of the shower, and usually end up at their favorite breakfast table together, so it was still all right.

This morning wasn't much different. He walked right into Porthos as he turned the corner from the toilets to the showers, and it was such a usual occurrence that it didn't startle either of them any more. "Morning, Athos," Porthos yawned, reaching up to pat his hair.

Athos grunted noncommittally, resting his head on Porthos' shoulder where they'd collided. He was not awake. He refused to be conscious right now.

Days like this he really resented Aramis being a morning person (well, a morning person when he wasn't hungover, but no one was really a morning person hungover, as Athos could attest). He could definitely hear Aramis singing over the sound of the water, in the shower stall on the far end, the only one that had decent water pressure and a light that didn't flicker. For a brief, sleepy moment, he wondered if there was any way he could just climb in with Aramis that _wouldn't_ be totally misconstrued. He just...didn't feel capable of standing long enough to shower, was all. He'd like Aramis or Porthos to do it for him.

He groaned pitifully into Porthos' shoulder. He'd had too much to drink last night.

Aramis' singing broke off. "Is that Athos?" he called, and Athos wondered briefly if he should worry that his friends could identify him by a pained groan.

"Good morning, Aramis," he called back.

"Morning," Aramis said cheerfully. "Can I borrow your shampoo?"

Athos heaved himself off Porthos' shoulder, trying to find his shampoo in his shower caddy while opening his eyes as little as possible. He'd gotten good at it by now. He crossed to Aramis' shower stall and rolled the bottle under the door. Then, since he was already so close to the floor, he sat down and rested his head against the wall. It was right by the radiator. It was warm.

"I told you another beer last night was a bad idea," Porthos said, glancing at Athos in the mirror. 

Athos didn't dignify that with a response. He'd been incredibly worried about open practice last night, and he wouldn't have slept at _all_ if he hadn't had that last beer. He sat there, silently coming more awake, listening to Aramis sing quietly and watching Porthos do his hair.

The water shut off in Aramis' shower, and Athos closed his eyes, trying to summon the energy to move. He didn't manage it, and thus Aramis nearly hit him with the door when he emerged a few moments later, towel around his neck and pajama pants low on his hips.

"Athos, for the love of God," Aramis sighed, bending down and hooking his hands under Athos' arms. Athos let Aramis manhandle him into the shower stall, decidedly _not_ looking at Aramis' lean, damp torso, and Porthos gave him another amused look in the mirror. Athos rolled his eyes at him. Porthos was doing the exact same thing, anyway.

He stripped without falling over, a serious accomplishment this morning, and turned the water on. He could hear Porthos and Aramis' low voices behind the rush of the spray, and he focused on the sound, letting it drag him back into the real world. 

"Wash your hair," Porthos called. "You gotta look presentable later."

"I'm flipping you off through the stall door," Athos called back. "You can't see me, but trust me, I am." He smiled as he heard them laughing. (Then he washed his hair.) And he had to give it to them, he did feel a lot more human when he came out.

Porthos had finished with his hair and lounged against the sink, watching Aramis shave. He looked up as Athos stepped up to the sink to brush his teeth. "You awake now?"

"Mostly," Athos said around his toothbrush.

"You should shave, too," Aramis told him, wiping shaving cream off his own face. "At least a bit. Captain should probably not be a scruffy mess for practice."

Athos extended the hand holding his toothbrush in demonstration. It wobbled violently back and forth, and he shrugged, leaning over the sink to spit out his toothpaste. "I really don't think putting a razor anywhere near myself this morning is a good idea. I look fine."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look that said everything in the mirror. Athos glowered at them. 

Aramis sighed, turning to Athos. He braced one hip against the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. "Athos."

"Aramis. I will slice my face to ribbons, and that will look worse." He reached for his mouthwash, determined to ignore this.

"Oh, for God's sake," Aramis huffed. "I'll do it?"

Athos choked on his mouthwash. Luckily, hacking up a mouthful of Listerine perfectly covered the blush that had flooded up into his cheeks at Aramis' offer. 

"Good idea," Porthos said when Athos had stopped coughing. Athos would have expected him to balk, but when he met Porthos' eyes, there was something strangely soft behind his smirk. "You do need it, Athos."

Athos filled his cupped hands with water and took a drink to avoid answering. Aramis waited patiently. "If you both insist," Athos said finally, when he was sure his voice would sound at least close to normal.

Aramis beamed at him. "I'll commandeer a chair."

Athos was regretting his decision less than thirty seconds in, as he sat as still as he could in the cheap wooden chair they'd dragged in from the kitchen across the hall. The first thirty seconds had been fine, because he'd put his own damn shaving cream on his face, but after that, Aramis started _touching_ him and Athos was in hell. Literally. Hell.

Hell was Aramis gently touching his chin, tilting it this way and that and tracing a razor ever so carefully over his cheeks to trim his facial hair back into something resembling a beard. Hell was Aramis' face inches from his, his eyes intent and full of concentration, set in that intent look he only got when he was fencing--or flirting. Hell was Porthos watching, with a little smile playing across his lips that Athos didn't understand. Hell was being grateful his towel was bunched in his lap to hide the fact that he was stupidly, absurdly hard beneath his pajama bottoms. In the fucking _bathroom_ , where anyone could walk in (and someone probably _would_ , and that someone would probably be d'Artagnan, and Athos would never live it down because God hated him).

Athos closed his eyes and devoted every iota of concentration to keeping his breath steady, his heartbeat regular, and his mind firmly out of the gutter. Aramis' long, delicate fingers were gentle but firm, and Athos didn't think Aramis had ever touched him like this before. It was so easy to imagine that touch skating over his cheeks, his neck, his chest and stomach and--

Athos' eyes snapped open. Closed eyes were a bad idea. Open would be easier to focus on something, anything but that. 

Porthos was smiling. Athos couldn't understand it, but he also couldn't give Porthos a _what are you looking at?_ sort of glare, because Aramis would see. So he just had to look blankly at Porthos, poker face up and impenetrable, while Porthos had this soft, contemplative smile on behind Aramis' back.

"I swear, Athos," Aramis said, his voice soft, "it's like you're a little baby bird sometimes." He was smiling, though, and he shook his head slightly. "Bringing food back to the nest for you and making sure you groom yourself."

Porthos chuckled softly, drawing one knee up to his chest and bracing his foot on the counter. "I know. It's like I want to wrap you in a towel and put you in a shoebox."

Athos felt the corners of his mouth twitch, and he fought to keep a straight face while the razor rasped over his skin. Aramis lifted the razor for a second, and Athos took the opportunity to say, "If either of you regurgitates any worms, I'm not eating them."

Porthos' laughter echoed off the tiles, and Aramis had to put the razor down until he stopped shaking with giggles. Athos grinned at them until Aramis picked up the razor again and he had to put a straight face back on, but warmth had settled into his chest at their words. Any other people, he would have thought they were teasing him, telling him he was helpless, but not them. Mornings like this, it was easier to just let himself believe they didn't mind taking care of him.

"There," Aramis said, after what was probably only five minutes, yet felt like hours. He reached over with Athos' still-damp washcloth to wipe the last traces of shaving cream from his face, and Athos couldn't help the way his eyes drifted shut when Aramis' hands smoothed over him, even with the scratchy terrycloth between them.

Then he realized what he was doing and his eyes snapped open again. Aramis smiled at him, then reached over and tweaked the end of his beard. Athos whacked Aramis' hand away and ducked his head to hide his smile (and his blush).

"I'm gonna get dressed," Aramis said cheerfully, washing his hands. "See you in the dining hall in ten?" 

"Yeah," Athos said, unsticking his throat enough to answer. He stayed where he was, not quite sure he wouldn't embarrass himself if he stood up just yet.

"Sure," Porthos agreed, hopping down from the sink. Aramis grinned, grabbed his own shower tote, and left. 

Athos waited until he was sure he'd heard Aramis' door close down the hall to speak. "Why were you smiling?" he asked, looking up at Porthos.

Porthos didn't answer at first, focusing on gathering up his things. Athos couldn't see his face, but he could see his reflection, and Porthos looked like he was thinking hard. "Don't really know," he said finally. "You looked so terrified, it was funny." He shot Athos a grin over his shoulder.

"Did not," Athos said. "Try again." His mouth was dry, and his heart was pounding again. He had no idea why.

Porthos' grin faded slightly, and he just _looked_ at Athos for a long minute. "I think I like seeing you two together," he said finally. 

Athos stared.

A dull flush crept up Porthos' cheeks, and he shook his head, shook his whole body, and scooped up his things. "See you downstairs," he said, and followed Aramis out of the bathroom.

Athos had to sit for a long few minutes before he could stand up. Then he was racing back to his room to get dressed and get downstairs, because if either of them realized how long he'd sat in the bathroom physically willing his erection to subside, he might literally die of shame.

Luckily, any and all flustered thoughts crashed out of his head when he walked into the dining hall and got an eye on their breakfast table. There was someone else sitting there, his back to Athos and one arm around Constance's chair, and even from this distance he could see Porthos and Aramis chewing their tongues.

He'd forgotten Jacques was coming this weekend.

He filled a plate with eggs, threw a croissant on top, and got a very, very large cup of coffee. He was going to need every last drop of it.

"Morning," came a familiar call behind him then, and Athos swore inwardly. This was not going to go well.

"Good morning, d'Artagnan," he said, forcing a smile and passing his younger friend the half and half as d'Artagnan came up behind him.

D'Artagnan's smile was equally thin and forced, and he leaned in towards Athos and as he poured his own cup of coffee. "Who," he asked, his voice very low and forcedly casual, "is that jackass in the sport coat with his arm around Constance's chair like he owns her?"

Athos sighed. "Constance's boyfriend." He caught d'Artagnan's look of horror and sighed again. "I know. He's exactly as awful as he looks. Just roll with it and be polite."

The only good thing about Jacques being there was that any lingering awkwardness from the morning between him, Porthos, and Aramis disappeared in the face of putting up a united front. They both smiled at him and d'Artagnan in pure relief as they drew closer, and Athos sighed and braced himself.

He sat down between Constance and Aramis, purposefully making sure the only seat d'Artagnan could take was as far from Jacques as possible. "Good morning, everyone," he said as pleasantly as he could manage. 

"Jacques, you remember Athos," Constance said, her voice already sounding strained. It was barely ten-thirty, and she already sounded like she was at the edge of her patience. She looked relieved to see him, though, and he smiled at her. Then her eyes flicked to d'Artagnan, and something like despair crossed her face. "And this is d'Artagnan. He's one of my first years." 

"Pleasure," Jacques said, like a king deigning to speak to his subjects. D'Artagnan's lips curved in a terrible approximation of a smile, but Jacques didn't seem to notice anything amiss. He went to business school, Athos thought; maybe that was how everyone smiled there. "Athos," Jacques said then, nodding to Athos.

Athos made himself smile at the other man, slipping easily into an old habit he'd developed as a child at high society parties: a bland smile and a pleasant expression, while privately detesting everything about the person he was talking to. Jacques had a too-thin hipster mustache and a permanently superior look, and Athos had never liked the way he always put his arm on Constance's chair, like it just belonged there. 

"Doing well?" Jacques asked him then, and he couldn't have been more obvious that he didn't actually care if he tried.

"Tolerably," Athos drawled, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Aramis and Porthos trying not to smile. He wasn't _trying_ to mimic Jacques' affectations; it just sort of happened. "Yourself?"

"Well, thank you." Jacques settled back in his chair, smiling at Constance with the kind of look Athos used to see his father give his mother--the look of a collector studying a familiar possession. Constance, staring down at her plate and pushing a triangle of pineapple around in circles, didn't see.

Athos clenched his fist around his fork and looked away. Aramis and Porthos weren't even faking smiles anymore, and d'Artagnan looked like he was about to explode. Athos cleared his throat, and the three of them looked sharply at him. He shook his head warningly and bent his head to his breakfast. "MBA coming along?" he asked, more for Constance's sake than out of any real interest--even if it didn't seem like she was listening at all. He didn't want Constance to think they all despised her boyfriend, no matter how true it was. 

"You're getting your MBA?" d'Artagnan asked, clearly trying to follow Athos' example and make polite talk. He looked like he was swallowing a lemon, but he was trying. Athos flashed him a smile.

"I'll be graduating from Babson in December," Jacques said loftily. "I've already got an offer from a firm in New York."

"Great for you," Porthos said under his breath, and Athos felt Aramis kick him under the table.

"That's great, Jacques," Aramis said, giving Porthos a look.

"So you'll be moving?" d'Artagnan said bluntly, his smile slightly more vicious this time. The table jolted slightly as Aramis, Porthos, and Athos all tried to kick _him._

Jacques smiled faintly. "I'm going to sublet a friend's apartment in Manhattan." He lifted the arm he had around Constance's chair, and Athos relaxed slightly--then tensed up again when he laid it across her shoulders. Constance startled slightly, jerked from her thoughts, and flashed a quick smile at him. He looked back at them and flashed a smile that was more a sneer. "Constance is going to move in, too, over winter break."

Athos could feel his fork bending in his hand and forcibly relaxed his grip. 

Constance's faint smile faded. "We said we'd talk about it, Jacques," she said firmly, reaching for her coffee cup and taking a long drink. 

"It's _Manhattan,_ Constance," Jacques sighed, fixing her with an exasperated look. "I told you, I can get you an interview with--"

"And I told _you_ I want to stay in Boston." Her voice said louder than her words that the discussion was over. If it had been any of the four of them talking to her, and they had tried to say anything else after that, Athos knew she'd eviscerate them.

Jacques, apparently, got to keep going. He smirked at the other men. "She'll change her mind when I take her to Fifth Avenue," he said.

Constance slammed her cup down and pushed her chair back. "I've got to be in the lab," she said, a furious flush high in her cheeks, and she threw her napkin on her plate. She looked at her four friends, a complicated mix of anger and apology in her eyes. "You're coming to the presentation?" 

"Of course," d'Artagnan said swiftly, smiling wide at her, and they all chorused a yes, too. They'd all been planning to come before, but even if they hadn't, Athos would have promised anything right then to get that awful look off her face.

She nodded, her tight expression easing a little, and picked up her dishes. "Jacques, come on," she said, her voice hardening again, and she swept off to the dish return without waiting to see if he was going to follow.

"See you later," Jacques said to them, smiling that obnoxiously complacent smile, and he picked up his coffee cup and left.

D'Artagnan barely waited until he was out of earshot to round on the three of them. He looked like he could barely breathe for rage. "Are you _kidding_ me?" he hissed, his face livid. 

"Don't," Porthos said, shaking his head. "Just don't get involved. She can't stand it when we try to tell her that he's shit. She stopped talking to us for a week after he came to visit last time."

D'Artagnan waved a hand after them, his eyes wide with disbelief. "If anyone else talked to her like that, she'd punch them into next week--and he's her _boyfriend?"_

"He's been her boyfriend since high school," Aramis told him. "She loves him." His voice was edged with something Athos didn't like. "We do stupid things for our first loves."

"And we refuse to see certain things, too," Athos said, thinking of Anne. "Just drop it, d'Artagnan. Constance is a smart woman. She'll know enough to get out of something that isn't good for her."

He sounded so convincing even he believed himself for a moment. 

D'Artagnan sank back into his chair, staring into his coffee. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered under his breath. 

"Manhattan," Porthos snorted, stabbing viciously at his ham. "I'd love to show him _my_ Manhattan."

"Oh, I would pay to see him survive on the streets for a week," Aramis said, grinning tightly.

"Gentlemen," Athos said, putting his captain's voice on, and they all settled, looking slightly guilty. 

They ate in silence, then, and finally Athos gave up and pushed his plate away. "We should go," he said. "We want to sit in the front row, right?"

They all nodded, and Athos led the way up from the table, his food feeling like lead in his stomach. 

_What a pleasant omen for the rest of the weekend,_ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops I didn't realize I had a shaving kink until I started writing this. also, nothing against Babson as a school, most of the people there are lovely. 
> 
> Work is going bananas again, and I got a little sidetracked with one of my other fic 'verses. Trying to juggle real life and fandom life is hard, but I've got the rest of the semester in the fic planned out, so hopefully it'll be smoother sailing from here. As always, thank you, one and all, for the absolutely lovely comments. Feel free to drop me a line on [ze tumblrs](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demonstrations, intimidation, and an uncomfortable phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, but there was a natural break, and it's been a while since the last update. Y'all remain the best readers ever, and I'm so very thankful. :hugs:
> 
> Minor content warnings this chapter for overbearing boyfriends and emotionally distant parents, and a brief reference to prescription drugs.

The four fencers filled the front row of the Computer Science lab's demo room. Jacques sat in the back, and Athos allowed Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan to exchange bitter looks of disdain as they sat down. Athos, for his part, ignored Jacques, not even glancing back as he took the very front and center seat. 

He kept his back as straight as possible, his head held high and his posture impeccable, because those were the tiny, pathetic weapons he had against people like Jacques. He wouldn't be a de la Fère if he couldn't make other people feel physical shame at how much better-bred he was.

"Is it working?" he asked Aramis out of the corner of his mouth.

Aramis twisted in his chair to see, ostensibly popping his back, then settled back into his seat, smirking. "Looks like someone spread shit under his nose." D'Artagnan cackled quietly to himself.

"I love it when you do that," Porthos said under his breath. "I mean, it's terrifying and I hate it, but I also love it."

"It's because he's using his evil powers for good," Aramis said, then waved brightly at Constance, who'd just seen them.

She bent over the computers at the front of the room with the other students in her lab, face set in a frown of concentration, but some of the tension lines eased from her face when she looked up and saw them. She gave a little wave back, then looked back down at the desktop, her face a bit happier.

The room filled slowly. These sorts of demonstrations and presentations made up the bulk of Family and Friends weekend-- _hey, this is what we're working on, this is what your money's paying for_ \--and Athos wondered how many parents would be at their open practice that afternoon. There were already rows and rows of them here. 

"Stop panicking," d'Artagnan said beside him, and Athos wasn't sure if he loved or hated that the boy knew him well enough already to tell. "It's going to be fine."

"I know," he said shortly, more because he hated being caught out then out of any real conviction, and he heard Aramis and Porthos snickering on his other side. Luckily, the lab advisor stood up and moved to the podium then, saving him from needing to come up with a way to hit them without disturbing the people around them or incurring Constance's wrath.

The other demonstrations--of apps, of research, basically every project happening in the Computer Science department--sped along. "This is all actually really good stuff," he heard Porthos say to Aramis between demos, and Athos had to agree. There was a lot going on here. D'Artagnan looked enthralled, and Athos gave him an amused look as the kid clapped particularly enthusiastically for a video game project demo. 

"What do you have to do to declare as a CS major?" he asked Athos.

"I don't think you have the patience to be a programmer," Athos said, grinning at him.

D'Artagnan elbowed him good-naturedly. "I can be a tester, can't I?"

Constance and her two partners went last. All through the rest of the demos, she'd been tinkering with the phone in her hands, holding it up occasionally as if to take a picture, and she looked pleased as she stepped up to the podium. 

"Thank you all so much for coming," she said to the room at large, her smile wide and charming as ever. Her eyes flicked over the four of them in the front row, her eyes crinkling just a little bit more, and Athos knew she meant them, specifically. "We've been working since last semester on this particular app, and we're delighted to share it with you now. We're really pleased at its practical applications, and we're sure that it's going to be a success."

Her partners brought up the first slide on their Powerpoint, displaying the logo of their app. It was two fencers _en garde_ , bordered to look like a single frame in a film reel, and Athos narrowed his eyes at Constance. She was looking right at him, and she flashed him a cheeky little grin.

"'Reflection' is a video tool meant to be used in sports," she explained to the room, "though it has broader applications, of course. Form and skill are crucial to athletes, and improving form improves skill. Being able to study one's own form is difficult without filming, though a plain, flat video doesn't much help, sometimes. We've made it easier."

For the next five minutes, Constance walked them through her app. Athos coveted it after thirty seconds. The fencing applications were incredible. It was a filming app, more sophisticated than the regular 'record' function on a phone. The screen would go dark once you hit the button, so it wouldn't distract you. When you'd finished, you could go through and highlight an individual figure to track. It was easy to set markers on specific actions, replay beats and moments, and--if your sport was in the database they'd included, which fencing was--compare individual actions to recorded footage of professionals.

"This is magnificent," Aramis murmured beside him. "I may ask her to marry me."

"Get in line," Athos said. "I composed a lovely proposal two minutes in."

"She'd only marry you for your money, Athos. Use you to finance her quest to develop her own operating system."

"I would be fine with that."

As much as Athos was excited about the app, the best part was seeing Constance at ease. She looked so happy. Everyone seemed impressed, and the demos had gone perfectly. Athos would barely have believed she'd been so quiet and withdrawn at breakfast if he hadn't seen it himself.

The teams had all taken brief questions, and the first one up for Constance's team was, "How did you come up with it?" 

"My friends are fencers," Constance answered. She flashed them a smile as she spoke. "And I love the sport. I made it for them."

"What a nice answer," Porthos said, just loud enough to be heard, and a little laugh chased its way around the room.

They clapped harder than anyone else in the room when they finished, and Constance flushed pink when Aramis stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. _I'll slap you,_ she mouthed, but she was smiling when she sat down. The lab advisor stepped up to give some closing remarks, but Athos' attention was still fixed on the demo. He _wanted_ that app.

"Uh-oh," d'Artagnan muttered. 

"What?" Athos asked, not really paying attention as he craned his neck to see the phone in Constance's hands. He wondered what she was charging for it. Maybe if they volunteered as test subjects--

"Someone looks unhappy," d'Artagnan said, and Athos glanced sidelong to see d'Artagnan shooting glances over his shoulder.

Athos followed his gaze, and saw Jacques in the back row, his face like a thunderstorm and his hands white-knuckling the edge of his chair.

"What the fuck could it be this time?" he sighed in exasperation, turning back around in his chair.

"Oh, I dunno," Porthos said with an air of exaggerated casualness, but his eyebrows tugged together in a slightly worried frown. "Could it maybe be his girlfriend just spent six months on a project designed specifically for her friends--namely, a pack of men who aren't _him?_ And then told everybody about it?"

"That's ridiculous," d'Artagnan scoffed. "What kind of jealous idiot would--" He broke off at their expressions. "Okay, _seriously?"_

"We'd better do some damage control," Aramis sighed, as the lab instructor wrapped up and people started to gather their things. "C'mon."

They all tended to follow Aramis' lead in situations like this--he was good at soothing the ruffled feathers of jealous boyfriends (Athos tried not to think about _how_ Aramis had gotten so good at that). 

"Let me do the talking," Aramis reminded them, sidling around Athos to get to the end of the row of chairs. A group of other CS students had surrounded Constance and her team, so mercifully she didn't see as Aramis moved smoothly to intercept Jacques as he strode up from the back.

Aramis caught his arm, and Jacques looked up in sharp annoyance. Aramis' face was open and friendly, and he had his most winning smile in place. "Great presentation, huh?"

Jacques glared at him. "Of course _you'd_ say that."

"Yes," Aramis agreed pleasantly. He still held Jacques' elbow, and he didn't look like he planned on dropping it any time soon. "We _would_ say that, because we're her very good friends. So here's what's going to happen."

He stepped even closer to Jacques and dropped his voice, still unfailingly pleasant. "We're all going to walk over there and congratulate her, because it was marvelous work and she's been so _very_ excited to show everyone. And _you're_ going to smile and tell her how wonderful it was. You're not going to ruin this for her in any way."

"I don't think you get to tell me how I can talk to my own girlfriend," Jacques said, sounding offended in that obnoxious way people had of doing when they knew they were wrong.

Aramis' smile widened. "You didn't let me finish. I was going to give you the good reason why."

Jacques rolled his eyes. "Fine. Why." 

Aramis leaned in and put his arm around Jacques' shoulders, smiling kindly at him. "Because if you _do_ ruin this for her, the way you've ruined--oh, _so_ many other things--we are going to go outside, and I am going to let those three--" He jerked his head at Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, absolutely none of whom were standing threateningly behind him. "Take turns punching you."

Jacques blinked.

"A lot," Aramis added. "If they're all taking turns, give their hands a chance to recover between hits, I'd say it could go on for, oh, an hour? Maybe more? And we all know how to hit so it doesn't show. It'll just hurt." His voice never wavered from its light and cheery tone, like they were talking about the weather, or last night's Sox game. Jacques had started to look sick.

Athos and Porthos shared a sidelong grin. There was a reason they loved him.

"Not to mention Constance," Aramis added. "If you ruin her day, I imagine she'll come out there and join us at some point. And you know, her nails do _hurt."_

Jacques stared at Aramis, his mouth hanging open.

Aramis grinned and patted his cheek. "Good. We're clear. After you, then."

It took Jacques a second, then he hurried past Aramis, his eyes wide and his hands trembling slightly. Aramis turned, grinning broadly, and Porthos draped an arm over his shoulders as they followed Jacques up to Constance's table. "That," Porthos said, nodding to Jacques' back, "was some of your best work ever."

Aramis preened. "A little inelegant, maybe, but not bad."

"Ten out of ten," d'Artagnan said, badly concealing his own glee.

The crowd around the table cleared out, and Constance saw them coming. Her face lit up, and she reached out and caught Jacques' hand. "What did you think?" she asked, her smile a little nervous.

"Great," Jacques said, his voice only a little strained, and Athos felt more than heard Aramis laughing beside him. "Really...quite splendid, darling."

The smile that spread across her face was brighter than sunlight. She looked so happy, just from that little compliment that any decent human being would have paid her without needing to be bullied into it. Athos and Porthos exchanged a split-second look of disgust, but when Constance looked to them, they all chimed in with enthusiastic compliments.

"I need it," Athos said, stepping closer so he could get a better look at the phone. "I don't care if it's still in beta, I want it right this second."

Constance laughed, butting her shoulder affectionately against his. "It needs a lot of testing, but if you want to be my testers--"

"Yes," the four fencers said in unison, and Constance flushed pink with happiness.

"I thought," she said, looking eagerly up at them, "I could take it down to the open practice and give it a test?"

Triumph surged up in Athos' chest, and he had to fight to keep his face straight. He could _feel_ Aramis and Porthos grinning at him on either side--they knew how long he'd been wheedling and cajoling her to come to open practice--and he nodded as calmly as he could. "Great idea," he said, his voice as even as he could make it, and Constance beamed at him.

Jacques was scowling again. Athos ignored him.

"You realize," Aramis said later, as the four fencers walked down the steps of the science building, "she's going to bring Jacques." They'd left Constance and Jacques with the rest of the lab groups; the department was hosting a little reception for parents and family, and Jacques had _kindly_ agreed to stay. The four of them begged off to go get ready for open practice, after Athos had unsubtly extracted several more promises from Constance to come.

"Don't care," Athos said. He was fighting the urge to leap into the air and crow. "She'll be in the building. I'll get a foil in her hand."

"Do you think," d'Artagnan said in a deceptively mild tone, "we could arrange some sort of accident for Jacques? Possibly involving unblunted sword tips and a quiet disappearance behind the gym?"

"We've considered it already," Porthos said, stroking his beard. "Believe me, the logistics just don't make it worth it."

"Shame," Aramis sighed, leading them along the path to the sports building.

Athos opened his mouth for the obligatory _no, we can't kill him,_ when his phone rang in his pocket. The Imperial March from Star Wars sang out, and Athos swore. "Aramis, I told you not to make that her ringtone," he muttered, digging his phone out.

"Who?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Madame," Aramis and Porthos said in unison, their faces hard.

Athos stared at the phone, his good mood completely drained away. She must have gotten his email. He gritted his teeth, thumbed _accept_ and lifted the phone to his ear. _"Bonjour,_ maman," he said in formal tones.

 _"Bonjour,_ Olivier." She did not sound happy. _"Comment vas-tu?"_ Ritual formula. She didn't really care.

 _"Je vais bien."_ He motioned to his friends to keep walking, and he fell in a few paces behind them. _"Et vous?"_

She launched immediately into full voice, the usual stream of unpleasantness about how he'd completely inconvenienced her and failed to take her feelings into account. "How," she asked, still in French, "are your father and I expected to round out the table if you're not coming home for Thanksgiving? We've already sent the invitations."

Athos was never more grateful that neither Aramis nor Porthos spoke French than he was when his parents called. "I'm sure you'll manage, maman."

 _"Managing_ is not the point, Olivier. There are certain expectations."

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache already starting. "I'm sure you'll keep up appearances better without me."

"Yes," she said, her voice clipped. "We heard you've been neglecting yourself again."

 _Neglecting yourself_ being the posh, polished code word for _fell off the wagon and got dragged,_ as Anne had so delicately put it.

Athos stopped dead on the path. Porthos and Aramis stopped too, d'Artagnan a moment later, all of them looking around at him. Athos barely noticed. "Maman," he said, his heartbeat so loud in his ears he could barely hear the phone, "are you talking to Anne?" 

She sniffed. "The de Breuils still attend the club's dinners--"

"And Anne told her parents so they would tell you." He felt Porthos and Aramis take a step closer--they may not have understood the conversation, but they knew what 'Anne' meant, and he half-turned away. He couldn't stand their looks of worry. "Is that what this conversation is about?" he asked, lowering his voice. "This isn't scolding me about Thanksgiving, this is scolding me about nearly relapsing." (He was so, _so_ glad the others didn't speak French.)

"I'm not scolding you, Olivier." She sounded tired. That was all. Not concerned, not caring, just tired. Bored of him. "I simply feel that you sometimes forget you do not live in a vacuum."

"So you keep tabs on me through the de Breuils?" Athos couldn't begrudge Anne for still speaking to her parents, but she had to have known it would work its way back to _his._ And he could definitely be angry at _them._ "Was I not very clear during my _spiraling mental breakdown_ that I needed you to be on _my_ side, not hers? What part of _that woman nearly killed me_ doesn't matter to you, maman?" 

He was just vomiting words into the phone now, and he forced himself to stop, to gulp a breath of air. His hand hurt, and dimly he realized he was holding his phone tight enough to snap it. Aramis and Porthos looked worried, and he waved his free hand at them in a vague _it's okay_ gesture, turning fully away so they couldn't see the flush on his face.

"I have never taken anyone's _side,_ Olivier." There was absolutely nothing warm or maternal in her voice. 

"Especially not mine," Athos said. He was sick of this. "I'm not coming home for Thanksgiving, I'm not coming home for Christmas, I'm not coming home for the summer. Plan the fucking dinner parties accordingly. _Au revoir,_ maman." 

"Olivier Athos de la Fère, don't you _dare_ \--"

He hung up. Shoved his phone in his pocket, and stormed on up the walk, past his friends, his heart pounding in his throat.

They followed him at a slight distance, giving him space to cool down. "All right?" Porthos asked at last, as they came up the walkway to the sports building.

There were _so_ many things he wanted to say; angry, furious words pressing against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Athos gave in to temptation and spit them out. "She's so fucking cold. She's got no idea how to handle problems, so she doesn't even try. It's always about how my fucking mental health is _inconveniencing_ her."

He knew there really wasn't anything they could say to that, and he waved another hand at them so they knew they didn't have to answer. His heart was still going hard and fast against his ribs, and between one heartbeat and the next it was just too much. He leaned back against the brick wall of the building, sinking down onto the stairs, and buried his face in his hands, trying to breathe through it. He wanted a drink. He'd settle for a smoke. He could really use a fucking Klonopin.

 _Anne could help with that,_ he thought, and resisted an hysterical urge to laugh.

"Okay," Aramis sighed, and he sat down beside Athos. He left an inch or so between their bodies, careful not to touch, giving Athos the choice. Athos leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, and Aramis wrapped an arm around him, steady, grounding. "Just breathe. You're here. We're here. In and out, with me."

He could feel Aramis' chest rising and falling, and Athos breathed in the same rhythm. Aramis' breath, Aramis' heartbeat.

"Someone talk about something else," he said, his voice muffled slightly by his hands.

There was a brief silence, then d'Artagnan spoke up brightly. "So you speak French at home?"

Athos resisted another hysterical cackle of laughter. "Yes," he said. "My father's family fled to America during the French Revolution, but we were aristocrats before that, and I have never been allowed to forget it. My mother's French-born, we had French nannies, I learned French before English."

"You lying bastard," d'Artagnan said, perfectly casually. "Constance says you were in her _intermediate_ French class last year."

Athos smiled in spite of himself, hiding it behind his hands. "I needed an easy A."

"So don't be too impressed at him being a French major," Porthos said to d'Artagnan. "He's just as lazy as the rest of us."

Athos actually laughed, and Aramis' arm tightened on his shoulders. He'd forgotten how good it could feel to laugh. He never seemed to have a reason to anymore. "God," he sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He needed to be upstairs in the fencing studio. "What time is it?"

"We have time," Aramis said. "We can sit a while longer if you need." How he could be so perceptive sometimes, and so completely _clueless_ at others, Athos really didn't know.

"No," Athos sighed, and straightened, rubbing his hands over his newly-trimmed beard. The motion brought back the feeling of Aramis' hands on his skin, but instead of keying up his anxiety even further, it was weirdly soothing to remember the calm, quiet peace of the bathroom that morning. Just the three of them. Close. Comfortable. "No, I'll feel better getting up to the studio and getting things ready."

"Whatever you want," Porthos said laconically, and he held out a hand. Athos took it and let Porthos tug him to his feet. He took an extra half-step more than was necessary to steady himself, bracing himself on Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos let him, his dark eyes warm and worried. Athos met his eyes, nodded once to reassure him, and the lines in Porthos' face eased.

"I'll spar with you when we get upstairs," d'Artagnan offered, grinning at Athos, and Athos' mood lifted at the thought. 

"Yeah," he said as they started back up the stairs. "I could use the easy win." D'Artagnan lunged at him, and Athos dodged easily and raced up the steps, already feeling himself start to smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another really full week for me at work, and I'll be away from home starting Friday, but hopefully it won't disturb my writing too much. Feel free to drop me a line on [ze tumbleblag](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) and crack the whip if it seems like it's been too long.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open practice--both better and worse than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO YES I AM ALIVE. I'm away from home for the week, so I wanted to try to get this chapter up before going mostly off-grid. Sorry for the huge delay in posting; work went bananas and I hit a bit of a block on this chapter. I decided it was time to bring in some of the other ladies--and then promptly had a hell of a time agonizing over how I was going to introduce them. I have great plans for Ninon and Alice; unfortunately, just a taste of them in this chapter.

D'Artagnan lost gracefully. Ish.

"He's a terror when he's channeling his frustration into fencing," Porthos said, patting the boy's shoulder in consolation and badly hiding his grin. D'Artagnan lay flat on his back on one of the studio's fencing strips, one arm slung over his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. He hadn't been able to land a single touch on Athos.

"That was awful," d'Artagnan moaned. "I think my life just flashed before my eyes."

Athos, for his part, swished his foil back and forth, looking around the studio. "Do the racks look messy to you? Maybe we should reorganize them."

"And now he's just bubbling over with energy," Aramis laughed. He'd sat in the rows of chairs they'd set up for spectators, whistling and catcalling while Porthos refereed their little bout.

Athos almost casually flipped him off, still frowning at the racks. "I really think we should sort them by weapon. It'll look neater."

"Leave them be, Athos," Treville said as he walked in. D'Artagnan scrambled upright, looking mortified, but Treville waved a hand. "I was watching through the door. I hope you don't mind." 

Athos bit his tongue to hide his grin as d'Artagnan flushed bright red. "No, sir," the youth said, his voice nearly cracking.

"You did very well under the circumstances," Treville said, and offered d'Artagnan a rare smile. He glanced at Athos, one arched eyebrow saying everything.

Athos shrugged one shoulder, explaining as much with the single motion. He felt perfectly steady again. Treville's presence helped. The old coach was more of a parent to him than his biological set, that was for damn sure. "I'm fine now."

"Good." Treville gestured between Athos and d'Artagnan. "You'll do another bout for the open meeting."

D'Artagnan blinked, his color rising again, and he looked swiftly to Athos. Athos wasn't sure if his expression was pleading or panicked. It didn't really matter; either way, Athos was going to say yes.

"Of course," he said, nodding to Treville. 

Treville gave a quick jerk of his head. "Good. Get your uniforms on and warm up. The rest of the team will be here soon and I want you ready to go."

D'Artagnan didn't manage to unstick his tongue until the four of them were changing into their full gear in the locker room. "Athos, _Constance_ is coming," he said, sounding nearly frantic. So that face had been panic, then.

"I won't make you look too bad," Athos said absently, frowning at his jacket. Something looked different about it.

"It's clean," Porthos supplied, noticing his face. "If you're noticing something different."

"It was clean before." It was old, it had seen a lot of use. Now that he mentioned it, though, it was definitely a brighter white than before, with the vinyl patch with the Musketeers Fencing logo--a fleur-de-lis over crossed swords--buffed until it shone. He looked up at Porthos in confusion.

Porthos rolled his eyes, his face inexpressibly fond. "You made me promise to clean all the gear for a month, remember? For picking up up from the party."

Athos had completely forgotten. Everything else had driven it totally from his mind. He looked down at his gleaming, spotless jacket, for some reason totally flustered. "Oh." He swallowed. "I didn't mean for you to take so much care."

Porthos grinned. "Well, I didn't do it for _everyone._ "

"Oh, I feel special, then," Aramis said with a grin, smoothing his own pristine gear. "Thanks."

"Well, Athos is the full captain, we have to make him look good."

"Very true. He doesn't do so well with that on his own."

"Still standing here," Athos said automatically. Most of his attention was still fixed on the crisp, clean jacket in his hands. It just wasn't processing.

"If I'd known it was gonna break you," Porthos said jokingly, and his voice was a lot closer suddenly, "I wouldn't have been so obvious about it." Athos looked up, and Porthos was standing next to him, looking a little worried for all that his tone had been light. Maybe he thought he'd crossed a line or something. 

"No," Athos said, looking back down at the jacket in his hands and trying to regain some of his equilibrium. "No, thank you. I just..." How pathetic, exactly, would it sound to say he'd never had anyone just _do_ something like that for him before?Take a task he'd asked them to do as a joke, and then actually do it and do it sincerely, do it well, and do something nice just for him?

"If you don't like it, we'll find some way to dirty it up again," Aramis said, his smile sly, and the tension broke.

"I'm not sure I want to hear your ideas," Athos snorted, and started to put the jacket on. If he'd just stop holding it and staring at it like it was some precious relic, it'd be okay. It just needed to be a part of his body again. 

Porthos reached out to help him, strangely quiet, and Athos glanced up at him. "Thank you," he said again, hoping Porthos could tell he really meant it.

Porthos smiled at him, his face relaxing a bit, but there was clearly something still on his mind. Athos lifted his eyebrows slightly, a silent _yes?_ , and Porthos chewed his lip for a moment before saying, "Does basic human kindness really throw you off that much, Athos?"

Athos opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked down, tugging at the hem of his jacket and smoothing imaginary creases. "Guess so," he said. "At least, when it's applied to me."

Porthos sighed. One of his hands came down on Athos' shoulder, a broad and warm point of contact, and squeezed briefly. "I'm really glad _we're_ your people now," he said. 

Athos looked up sharply, feeling heat flood his face. Porthos smiled at him, a lopsided and rueful little thing that meant more than any picture-perfect grin. Aramis laughed softly, looking warmly at the both of them from where he leaned against the row of lockers, and Athos had no idea how to handle that. Even d'Artagnan laughed a little, grinning awkwardly and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He didn't leave, though--he didn't make an excuse or duck out, just accepted it. 

They were his people.

Athos couldn't handle any of this.

"Me, too," he said finally, letting go of the bottom of his jacket. Two syllables were all he trusted himself to say right now. He cleared his throat, drew his rank around himself like a force field, and said, "Shall we head out, then?"

"Yes, I think we've forced enough feelings on you for one day," Aramis said lightly. He grinned at Athos and pushed off from the lockers, slinging an arm around Athos' shoulders and steering him out. 

Athos let himself be manhandled, still slightly in shock. He closed his eyes for just a moment to commit the feeling of Aramis against him like this to memory, storing it up as a buffer against whatever the next hour was going to bring. Aramis holding him, Porthos' quiet declaration, even d'Artagnan's awkward little shuffle. He had people. No matter how many awful phone calls from home came, no matter how disastrous the next hour was going to be, he had people. 

The rest of the team began to drift in as the four of them warmed up. Athos kept a careful eye on the door, his heart leaping into his throat every time someone he didn't recognize passed by. Aramis and Porthos chewed their tongues to hide their grins every time, and he ignored them as best he could. Some of the chairs they'd set up along the wall of the fencing studio were already starting to fill--people coming in with their friends, things like that. Athos tried to stay calm.

"Oh, Ninon's here," Aramis said cheerfully, waving, and Athos nearly tripped over his foil.

Ninon de Larroque had just walked in with her group of friends. She'd been in all of his French classes since first year, and had this really disconcerting habit of flirting with him at every department end-of-semester party. She flirted with everybody, of course--Ninon double-majored in Women's & Gender Studies and Biology, and she liked to joke it was so she could get at humanities and science majors alike--but Athos sometimes felt that she took a particular interest in him. She and Aramis had been friends since they'd joined Prism, the student LGBTQ organization, in their first year, and Aramis was forever unsubtly trying to get them in the same room together.

She came to open practice every year, and every year Athos invariably made a klutz of himself.

"Aramis," he said in a strangled voice.

"Relax," Aramis said, clapping him on the shoulder, "I asked her to behave. I know it's your big day." He looked over at Ninon and grinned again. "But you could at least go say hi."

"Stop helping," Athos hissed at him.

Porthos badly hid his laugh under a cough. Aramis laughed, too, ruffling Athos' hair before turning to go bother d'Artagnan. Athos glared daggers at Porthos, and Porthos gave an apologetic shrug. He glanced once at Aramis' retreating back, then back at Athos, and sighed. "You _could_ go say hi," he offered.

Athos frowned at him. There was something off about Porthos' voice. "I could," he said slowly. "I probably will, just to be friendly. But then she'll probably ask me out again, and I really don't need the heart attack today."

Porthos shrugged one shoulder. "You could do worse."

Athos blinked. "Obviously?" There were an infinite number of people who were worse than Ninon. Ninon was human perfection embodied, like Aramis and Constance and Porthos. Athos had no idea what this conversation was doing. 

Porthos shook his head and looked away. "Never mind." 

Athos wanted to ask, but he had no idea how to. He looked over at the door, and abruptly whatever they were talking about didn't matter. "Oh, no."

"What?" Porthos followed his gaze, then did a double-take. "Are they all here for us?"

People. A _lot_ of people. Students, parents, large, chattering groups coming in and finding seats. Athos and Porthos shared a startled look. 

"We didn't get enough chairs," Athos said, feeling a very different kind of panic clawing up in his chest. Porthos put an arm around his shoulders, grinning, and steered him back to the corner where Aramis and d'Artagnan were watching with interest.

"I guess taking third at Regionals last year got some attention," Aramis laughed, fist-bumping Porthos. "Or maybe it's our handsome captain." He batted his eyelashes outrageously at Athos.

Funnily enough, Aramis' absurd flirting was peculiarly soothing. It was familiar, at least, and it jarred Athos back into his body. "I need to talk to Treville," he said, hurrying across the room. 

He stepped out into the hallway, looking for their coach--they definitely needed more chairs--but all he saw were more people, waiting to get into the fencing studio. This was ridiculous. They'd set up maybe twenty chairs, and there had to be forty people, at least.

"Athos," Treville called, and Athos turned and saw him by the stairs. Treville was smiling, a rare expression for him, and he beckoned Athos over. "We're going to have to move downstairs to the bleachers in the field house. I just talked to the student managers to get some mats laid out for a fencing strip." Athos nodded, still a little shell-shocked. Treville's smile widened slightly, and he patted Athos on the shoulder. "Remember to project," he said helpfully, and Athos rolled his eyes.

It took them about ten minutes to inform the crowd there'd been a change of venue, and for all the fencers to excitedly gather their gear and move downstairs. Athos, already fully decked out in his own gear, had nothing to do but pace and mentally revise the speech he'd prepared.

At about five after two, the crowd finally looked like it was as large as it was going to get. About fifty people, more or less. They filled a good section of the bleachers, and Athos took a deep breath, resting his hand on the hilt of his foil. He hated public speaking. The sooner they could get past his necessary introduction and into the demonstrations, the better.

He spotted Constance in the front row--then noticed her arm firmly tucked inside Jacques'--but Athos was so pleased to see the first thing that he decided to overlook the second. Constance waved brightly at him, and Athos waved back, feeling a little braver.

"Who's that?" he heard Aramis mutter to Porthos.

Athos shot them a glance--they couldn't be talking about Constance--and saw Porthos and Aramis looking off a little to the left. Porthos was smiling a little awkwardly, but Aramis had a very strange look on his face.

"That's Alice," Porthos said evenly. "She's in my Human Rights seminar."

Aramis looked over at the bleachers, gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip, and Athos followed his gaze to a pretty brunette in the back row, sitting with some other people he recognized from Porthos' study groups. She was new, though. She was also smiling over at Porthos. He waved slightly, and she waved back, looking pleased.

All of the sudden, Porthos' slightly strange behavior from earlier made a lot of sense. He must have known she'd be coming. Had he invited her?

"You could go say hi," Athos said, echoing Porthos' words to him from earlier, and Porthos shot him a glare. Athos lifted his eyebrows at him, a silent _see how annoying that is?_ and Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Porthos, go say hi," Aramis said, biting off the end of each word, and Athos looked over at him. Aramis had crossed his arms over his chest and was nervously tapping the end of his épée against his foot. He looked irritated, and Athos really wished that they'd both picked some other time besides _right now_ to be acting strange.

Mercifully, Treville caught Athos' eye and tapped his watch, and Athos nodded. He elbowed Porthos and whacked Aramis on the calf with his foil, and they both started. "Whenever you're ready, gentlemen?" he asked, and instantly they both fell into position, looking a bit guilty.

Athos stepped up onto their makeshift fencing strip, and the people assembled fell quiet. He straightened, feeling the safe comfort of his fencing jacket pulling at his shoulders, the weight of his foil in his hand, and this, at least, was familiar.

"Thank you all for coming," he said. "My name is Athos de la Fère, and I'm the captain of the fencing team this year." It was easier once he got started, standing up there as the captain. He'd have been happier if they were in the fencing studio, but it was still close enough to his element for him to feel comfortable.

And Porthos and Aramis had shrugged off whatever strange mood had possessed the both of them, flanking him, doing their jobs as vice-captains. They both talked a bit about their respective disciplines, easing some of the burden from him and propping him up with their presence, and Athos felt much steadier as they moved into demonstrations.

They'd meant to just do some demonstration bouts. But when Athos saw how green d'Artagnan was looking, he did something he never did: changed the plan on the fly. "Let's show some drills," he announced to the team, "and then we'll do bouts." D'Artagnan looked at Athos like he was God, and Athos nodded at him.

"You big softie," Porthos muttered in his ear, and Athos carefully did _not_ hit Porthos with his foil in front of all these people. It was for himself as much as d'Artagnan, anyway.

He could tell from their audience's whistling and impressed murmurs that the whole team, drilling footwork, thrusts, and parries in unison, was something to see. Athos' heart swelled with fierce pride for his fencers--they'd worked so hard, they all looked so good, they moved so well, and he could _feel_ approval radiating from Treville, as he watched from the sidelines.

Their audience actually clapped when they finished, and Athos tried not to flush too much in pleased surprise. When he and d'Artagnan stepped up to the strip, taking their masks from the rack, someone in the bleachers whistled in approval, and the rest of the audience clapped and called out encouragements to either him or d'Artagnan. 

And Athos very distinctly heard Constance call, "Kick his ass, d'Artagnan!" 

He'd have been offended, if d'Artagnan's swift motion to hide his blush in his mask weren't so weirdly adorable.

Treville refereed, and Athos wondered if it was their coach's presence that made d'Artagnan fence like a demon, or Constance's. Either way, d'Artagnan seemed more focused and far more deadly than he'd been in their earlier bout--and Athos realized with a sudden startled shock that maybe this was just how good d'Artagnan was. He got to know his opponents that quickly: he'd picked up more of Athos' tricks from the fight earlier, and Athos had pulled out every trick he knew in his blind fury. 

He knew his suspicions were correct when D'Artagnan scored a particularly clever touch with a Matrix-esque backbend and a sweep of his foil--almost _exactly_ the way Athos had scored the winning touch on him in their earlier fight.

Oh, they'd struck _gold_ with this one.

Athos still won, naturally. But it was much closer this time, and Athos tried not to be _too_ pleased by the applause when they took off their masks and shook hands.

"I'll get you one of these days," d'Artagnan said, grinning fiercely at him. 

Athos grinned back. "Never gonna happen."

It all went swimmingly after that. Porthos and Aramis did sabre and épée bouts, Treville talked for a bit about the team's history, their upcoming tournaments, pushed the volunteer staff sign-up sheet (all the things Athos was shit at), and Athos had started to think he was going to get through this without a panic attack when Treville said the fatal words.

"Feel free to come and ask our fencers any questions."

Athos cursed a steady stream of filthy French and English inside his head as the audience flooded off the bleachers to come and chat. He always hoped Treville would spare him this, and Treville never, ever did. Athos suspected ulterior motives. In pure self-defense, Athos positioned himself next to Aramis, hoping his far more chatty and social friend would handle most of the people.

But Aramis wasn't saying a word to the people clustered around them--in fact, the look on his face was scaring them off. His dark eyes were stormy, and his normally pleasant face was set in a scowl.

It took one look for Athos to figure out what he was upset about. Porthos was chatting amiably with the people from his seminar--but mostly with Alice, the pretty girl who'd gotten Aramis' hackles up earlier. The two of them seemed perfectly friendly--maybe a little more than friendly, Athos had to concede, as Porthos held up his sabre for her to see, and Alice ran her fingers over the guard.

Aramis actually _growled._

Athos gave him an exasperated look. "So you can throw me at Ninon de Larroque, but Porthos doesn't even get to _talk_ to some perfectly nice girl?"

Aramis turned red. "That's different," he said shortly.

Athos snorted. "How, exactly?"

Aramis chewed his tongue for a moment, then said, just as short and clipped as before, "Because there's no chance of you and Ninon ever _doing_ anything."

For a moment, Athos couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. Then he realized Aramis was _serious,_ and he could barely _breathe_ for how angry he felt. He wasn't sure what was more infuriating--Aramis dismissing him out of hand, or the implied obverse of his statement hanging in the air: _There's no chance of you and Ninon ever doing anything--_

_\--But Porthos might._

And Aramis really had some _fucking_ nerve, jealously guarding their every motion while he went out and slept with half the campus--

Athos took a step closer to Aramis and dropped his voice, barely able to control the outrage hissing out like steam. "You do _not_ get to decide these things for us, Aramis," he started, then broke off abruptly as he saw the flash of Constance's hair out of the corner of his eye.

She came up, smiling, a bored-looking Jacques in tow. Athos saw the exact moment she realized they were arguing, and the smile dropped straight off her face. "Everything all right?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Aramis said, laying on the charm so thickly you could _walk_ on it. Athos knew him well enough to see the brittleness to his smile, but Constance, after glancing between them curiously, let it slide, and stepped excitedly up to Athos. 

"That was _great,"_ she said, beaming, and she held up her phone. "I got some great test footage, too, especially you and d'Artagnan--did he disappear? I wanted to tell him how good he was--"

Athos let her chatter on, his anger with Aramis forgotten in the face of his utter _delight_ at Constance being so engaged in their sport. "I'm glad you had fun," he said, feeling little to no guilt at all for totally ignoring her asshole of a boyfriend. Jacques stood a ways off, checking his phone, but thankfully Constance looked like she'd totally forgotten about him, too.

"You make it look so easy," she said enviously, flicking through the match clips she'd taken. "Look at that, I could never--"

Even when he was in a snit, Aramis had Athos' back, and this was _just_ the opening they'd all been waiting for. "Sure you could," he said breezily, and flourished his épée. "Want to try?"

Jacques looked up from his phone. Aramis didn't even glance in his direction, his dark eyes dancing as he grinned teasingly at Constance.

She bit her lip, looking nervously at the weapon--then her whole face relaxed into a bright, excited grin. "Oh, _okay,_ let me just see it."

Athos made some pretext of checking the grip of his foil so she wouldn't see how blatantly thrilled he was that someone--anyone--had gotten a weapon in her hand. Even if it wasn't a foil. Aramis stood beside her, grinning for real now, and showed her how to hold it properly. His hands danced lightly over her arms, casually adjusting hands and elbows, and Constance clearly didn't think a thing of it. They were all used to Aramis being handsy, always touching and wanting to be touched.

Athos heard an outraged sniff from somewhere over where Jacques probably was, and he realized suddenly that Jacques _wasn't_ used to that. And Aramis had a reputation. 

He cleared his throat meaningfully, and Aramis shot him a glare. Athos glared right back--the usual _will you watch yourself?_ glare--and Aramis took a step back from Constance, his expression bitter again. "There, I think you've got it," he said, his voice at least approximating his previous charm.

"Can I try?"

Athos did _not_ jump out of his skin at the light voice behind him, and he deserved a fucking medal for that, he thought as he turned to Ninon de Larroque. She was smiling, arms crossed over her chest, and she nodded meaningfully at his foil.

From Aramis and Constance's strangled laugh-coughs, Athos knew she really meant a slightly different _weapon_ of his. 

He prayed to _God_ he wasn't fucking blushing as he nodded to her. "Of course, Ninon." He held out his foil, and she took it, stepping right into his space and brushing a shoulder against his. 

"Am I holding it right?" she asked, looking up at him with a challenge in her eyes. She was smiling playfully, and she was _right_ up against him, totally unafraid of being completely blatant--

And Athos surprised himself when he realized, now that it was actually _happening_ and not just some terrifying flirtation-that-could-be...he actually didn't mind.

"You should have your hand like this," he said, reaching out and carefully adjusting her grip on his foil. 

She smiled up at him, and lifted it to tap jokingly against the épée Constance still held. "Very male. It's a nice sense of power, isn't it, Constance?"

"I really like it," she laughed.

"Does the women's team have any openings?" Ninon asked Athos archly. She glanced up at him with sparkling eyes, and Athos had a healthy respect for anyone who could be so totally shameless about what they wanted. 

And a little flattered that it was _him,_ if he was honest.

He smiled down at her, inclining his head slightly. "We're always looking for more recruits," he said. He flashed Constance a smile, and she rolled her eyes.

Ninon grinned at him, half-turning so she could look him straight-on. Her chest pressed against his, and Athos flushed from head to toe. It felt good. "My floor's having a party tonight," she said, and the total non sequitur threw Athos for a second before he realized what she was doing. His heart leapt into his throat, pounding so hard he barely heard the next thing she said-- "You should come."

He swallowed, and he was _definitely_ blushing, light-headed and suddenly awash with confused emotions. Ninon was smart, and bold, and pretty, and she liked him. She didn't play games with him; she'd always been totally forthright. She liked him, and she liked to make sure he knew that.

He hadn't felt _liked_ in that way in a really long time.

"Yeah," he said, his own voice distant to his ears. "Yeah, I think I will."

She smiled, and the world seemed to return to real time as she turned away, smiling over at Aramis and Constance. "You two should come, too, it's going to really be fun."

"Sure," Constance said, grinning broadly. She looked better than Athos had ever seen her--in control, having fun, completely disregarding Jacques' disapproving stare. 

Aramis, on the other hand, looked like he'd been hit over the head, and Athos didn't quite understand the look on his face. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Athos and Ninon? "You know I love a party," Aramis said, about a fraction of a second later than he usually would take to respond, and he flashed Ninon a faint smile. "Can we bring Porthos?"

"Sure," Ninon said, grinning at him. "I wouldn't want to separate the inseparables. Tell him he can bring his girlfriend, too."

"She's not his girlfriend," Aramis said, too quickly. _Thrown,_ Athos realized--that was how Aramis looked right now. Thrown off his game, off his step, and Athos felt a passive-aggressive stab of satisfaction. Aramis could be the one wrongfooted for a change, see how it felt.

Light fingers on his chin jolted him out of his thoughts, and he looked down in shock to see Ninon smiling invitingly up at him. "See you later, handsome," she said, and handed him his foil. "Baudelaire Hall, fourth floor. Starts at ten."

"We'll be there," Athos said, and half-bowed again, just to see if she'd laugh. And Ninon did, a crystal-clear little sound, and Athos felt a rush of satisfaction as she went to go rejoin her crowd of friends.

"I'll go find d'Artagnan, tell him you want to congratulate him," Aramis said abruptly, putting a hand on Constance's shoulder, and walked off before either of them could say another word. Athos felt only the briefest stab of guilt. It was Aramis' own fault for assuming nothing would ever happen with him and Ninon. If he was going to play puppet-master with their love lives, he'd have to just accept that sometimes he rigged up a decent show.

"Is he okay?" Constance said, looking after him with worry plain on her face. "I thought he and Ninon were friends."

"They are," Athos said. He couldn't stop the next words as they slid out of his mouth, even as he knew how disgustingly petty they sounded. "He just doesn't like getting a taste of his own medicine for a change."

Constance gave him a sharp look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Athos shrugged. "He's been ditching us for pretty faces for years."

She blinked--then her face slid into something dangerous, and that expression plus Aramis' épée made for a frightening combination. Constance stepped closer, dropping her voice so it was just for them, and the épée pointed rock-steady at him. "Athos, swear to me you aren't using Ninon to make him jealous."

Athos stared at her. It was as if she'd just upended a bucket of ice over his head--fear slid down his spine in freezing chunks of anxiety.

Oh, fuck, _was_ he?

"No," he said after a shamefully long pause, his voice a pathetic imitation of its usual self. "No, you know--" He stopped before his voice cracked. "You know Aramis doesn't think of me like that, and anyway, hasn't he been throwing me at Ninon for years?"

_But Aramis looked so upset,_ Athos' traitorous mind whispered to him. _First Porthos, now you._

Athos swallowed hard. "We have to have a life outside of the three of us," he said. He wasn't sure he even believed what he was saying, but it seemed to do the trick for Constance.

"Just be sensitive," she said, still glowering at him. Some of the angry lines in her face had eased, though, and Athos could breathe easier. "It's hard when your friends get interested in other people." She lowered Aramis' épée--then clearly thought better of it, and lifted it again. "And if you hurt Ninon, I will run you through. She's a good friend. She doesn't deserve to be used."

Athos sighed. Anxiety pressed down on his chest like a physical weight. "Constance, I swear, none of that was in my mind." It wasn't a lie. He hadn't even thought about it until she said it.

She bit her lip, then shoved Aramis' épée at him. "Fine. I'll hold you to that."

"You can." He hope it didn't sound like as hollow a promise as he felt.

Aramis came back with d'Artagnan, then, and Constance's attention was mercifully diverted. She rushed over to him and threw her arms around his neck, much to d'Artagnan's blatant shock and hastily-hid delight. "D'Artagnan, you were great!" she enthused, pulling back to pull out her app. "Look, I got great footage--"

Athos watched the two of them put their heads together over her phone, and he felt a faint pang of worry. Aramis came to stand beside him, almost reflexively, and Athos wondered how it was that even when they were semi-fighting, they stayed beside each other. He passed Aramis' épée to him without a word, and Aramis murmured a quiet thanks. He was watching Constance and d'Artagnan, too--and Aramis noticed Jacques glowering a few feet away.

"Does this feel like trouble to you?" he said in an undertone to Athos.

"I hope not." Athos hesitated, then rushed on, before he lost his nerve, "If you don't want to go to the party, Aramis, I--"

"No," Aramis said, just as hastily as he'd cut Ninon off before. "No, let's--let's go. You haven't gone out in a while, and I told Porthos and--what's her name, Alice. We'll have fun." The words sounded forced, and Aramis didn't look at Athos as he said them. But he said them, anyway. 

Athos took a deep breath and let it out. They stood nearly as close as they usually did, but those extra few fractions of an inch seemed like a glacier between them. 

It _hurt._

"Yeah," Athos said. "Fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect us to finally earn the E rating next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One party, two fights, two bedrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally half the wordcount of the entire fic before it. A lot happens, and there wasn't a convenient place to break, so...yes. At long last, we earn our "E" rating.

The world had a surreal cast to it as their group left the sports building. Athos and Porthos walked close to each other; Aramis hung back a little with d'Artagnan (which was telling in itself; they all tended to seek out d'Artagnan's high spirits and easy chatter when they felt down), and Constance and Jacques brought up the rear. The two of them weren't talking very much. Athos wished he had more mental energy to spare for _that_ problem, but he was tired. He couldn't even celebrate how well their open meeting had gone--he was slightly preoccupied with how the world seemed to have shifted since they'd gone into the building.

Colors looked both brighter and dimmer: the lake shore, visible across the baseball and soccer fields behind the sports building, was hazy and gray, while the shock of red and yellow leaves on the trees around the campus center nearly hurt his eyes.

And he was hyperaware of Porthos beside him--and Aramis conspicuously not. 

Porthos seemed odd, too. He walked stiffly, his head held high, but there was something _off_ about the look on his face, a complicated mix of worry and something else that Athos couldn't quite read. 

"I thought you'd be happier," Athos said in an undertone to him.

Porthos half-smiled, a tense little quirk of lips that didn't go all the way up to his unhappy eyes. "So did I," he said. 

Athos opened his mouth to ask, then behind them d'Artagnan said, "I need to stop in the Mart, anybody mind?"

Nobody did, and Constance had some floor programming she needed to pick up cookie mix for, so they swung around into the ground floor of the campus center. Musketeer Mart, the little store beside the cafe, had everything from candy bars and energy drinks, to cake mix and instant noodles, to toiletries and plastic cups, and generally had everything you needed--at exorbitant rates, since it was more convenient than the supermarket in town that was impossible to reach without a car. They usually took Athos' car, but little emergencies always happened.

"Graham crackers are not an emergency," Porthos called as d'Artagnan grabbed boxes off the shelf. D'Artagnan casually flashed him the finger, and Porthos snorted. He and Athos lounged against one of the tables against the long wall of windows, while Aramis helped Constance pick out cookie mixes and sprinkle varieties for her floor event. Jacques was getting a coffee at the cafe--something ridiculously frilly and elaborate, and Athos looked viciously forward to the absurd whipped cream mustache he was going to get.

"So this party," Porthos said, his voice low as they watched the others.

"Yeah." Athos swallowed around the heavy anxiety burning low in his chest. He felt like he was walking a very fine tightrope over a very high chasm, and he didn't know if it was better to reach the other side, or step off the rope and fall. Going to the party--Ninon's party, Ninon with whom he would inevitably flirt and probably (his stomach twisted in fear and excitement) kiss, or something, since she seemed so keen on it--felt like stepping off the edge. 

But what would be safety--the other side of the chasm, if he walked this rope? What was there? The life he led with his friends, where he was safe and cared for, but always liable to have his heart twisted in a vise when one of them went off with someone else?

Was that better? 

"This party feels like a very big decision," Athos said. He tried to sound calm. But he had to tell _someone,_ had to give voice to this overwhelming feeling of dread crushing his chest.

"I know," Porthos said, and Athos looked up at him in surprise. Porthos stared straight ahead--no, not straight ahead, at Aramis. It always came back to Aramis, for the two of them, and there was something like pain in Porthos' eyes. "But--it might be better, right? Less..." He waved a hand to fill in for the word he couldn't find. "Y'know?"

The back of Athos' throat burned. "What? Dating Alice, or Ninon, you mean?"

Porthos shrugged helplessly. "I dunno. Be more normal. Maybe easier." He slumped back against the table and passed a hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He looked tired, as tired as Athos felt. Porthos knew how hard it was to carry these feelings around constantly. "Maybe anything would be easier than this complicated shit with the three of us."

Athos leaned into him, pressing his shoulder against Porthos', because he didn't know what else to say. "Normal, maybe." Because it was true, wasn't it? That was what everyone else wanted, that was what everyone expected. Pair off with a nice girl, like it was supposed to be that simple.

He thought of Anne, suddenly, Anne and her dark hair and light eyes and the way he'd thought everything was simple and wonderful with her. 

"But not necessarily easier." His voice had a bitter twist to it. "Or less painful." Even with kind, good people like Alice and Ninon. Nothing was certain, when it came to tangled, complicated things like emotions.

Porthos looked at him, as always a silent question in his eyes, because Porthos always knew when Athos was thinking something and not saying it. 

Athos sighed and shook his head, sinking wearily against Porthos. "Sometimes I really wish I were..." He let it hang, not entirely sure how to finish the sentence in the all-encompassing way that he needed to. _Less neurotic. Less needy. Less_ me.

"Straight?" Porthos offered dryly, one corner of his mouth tugging up. 

Athos snorted, and the thick melancholy choking his throat melted a bit in the face of Porthos' humor. "Well, that too." 

"Bi brigade," Porthos said, coining Aramis' favorite nickname for them, and put an arm around Athos' shoulders. "Attracted to our own gender, different genders, and making shit more complicated for ourselves."

"We need t-shirts," Athos sighed. He leaned into Porthos' half-embrace, wishing he could just stay here, wishing that Jacques wouldn't come up in a second with his fucking coffee, that d'Artagnan and Constance and Aramis wouldn't finish their shopping, and he could just stay with Porthos.

"We'll still have this, right?" Porthos said, a strange tension underneath his voice. "If we go to the party tonight and stuff gets...different. We'll still be okay, yeah?"

Athos closed his eyes. "By 'we,' do you mean you and me, or you, me, and Aramis?"

Porthos sighed. "Well, you and me, yes. But I do mean all three of us. If we haven't already lost him already."

Athos opened his eyes, and they automatically sought Aramis, across the way in the Mart with Constance. The two of them were very seriously comparing the merits of oatmeal versus sugar cookies, and the timbre of Porthos' sigh told Athos that he was looking at them, too.

Like he felt their eyes on him, Aramis glanced up. Athos wondered how they looked--slouching against the tables, with Porthos' arm around Athos and Athos' head on his shoulder.

Something softened around Aramis' eyes, the hard edge of defensiveness he'd been carrying since Ninon's invitation dropping off. He hesitated, then smiled a little tentatively.

Athos' breath caught. It always did, when Aramis smiled at them like that. He lifted a hand and gave a small wave, helpless to do anything else, and Aramis' smile widened into a full grin.

"I guess not," Porthos said quietly, his smile heavy and gentle in his voice.

"We'll be okay," Athos said. 

\- 

Everything seemed nearly close to normal for the rest of the day. Everyone stepped very lightly around each other, careful of everyone else's feelings, and while it was a great deal more precious than the way they usually treated each other, at least everyone was making an effort. 

Aramis insisted on getting Athos and Porthos dressed for the party--"something better than just your everyday t-shirts, at least put on a _nice_ one"--and Athos submitted to Aramis' ministrations as gracefully as possible. Aramis was being just a little _too_ enthusiastic, and Athos knew he was trying to make up for his earlier distance. So Athos sat patiently as Aramis rifled through his closet, pulling out t-shirts and then pushing them aside. 

"Athos, does one man really need to own this many band shirts?" Aramis said, frowning at a very old and faded Metallica shirt. 

"I had a phase," Athos said, keeping a careful eye on that Metallica shirt. It was a favorite. "But unlike most people who go through phases, I had the money to indulge it."

Porthos snorted and shook his head from where he lounged on the enormous beanbag under the window. Athos shot him a look, and Porthos just snickered harder. It took him a minute to get his giggling under control, and when he did, he checked his phone and groaned. "Aramis, just pick something, it's already ten."

"None of Athos' wardrobe is worthy of him," Aramis grumbled, and Athos flushed almost on reflex. Aramis saw, unfortunately, and waved a hand at him. "Especially when he's that adorable shade of lobster, which he'll probably be all night, if Ninon's around."

"Oh, for God's sake," Athos said, pushing up off his bed and moving quickly to the closet to hide his flustered blush. "I am wearing the shirt I'm wearing right now, Aramis, unless you pick something in five seconds."

Aramis made a sound of deep and utter disgust and dug hurriedly through the shirts. "No, no, _definitely_ no--ah. Here."

He pulled a shirt off its hanger and threw it at Athos, continuing to dig through the rack. Athos caught the shirt with his face and snatched it off to frown at it. It was a plain, heather gray Musketeers Fencing shirt, slightly newer and less tattered than its brethren. It was nearly identical to the faded black one Athos already wore.

Athos glared at him. "We've spent half an hour sitting here so you could pick _that_ out of--"

"I'm not done," Aramis snapped, digging through the _far_ back of his closet for where his button-down shirts lived. "Put that on."

Athos rolled his eyes and tugged off his shirt, throwing it somewhere in the vague direction of his hamper. It wasn't until he started pulling the gray one over his head that he realized the sound of Aramis' shirt-shuffling had stopped, and Porthos hadn't said anything in a while.

Athos tugged his shirt down over his chest and looked between the two of them. Aramis just stood there looking at him, his head tilted slightly to one side, and Porthos gazed steadily at him, his expression unreadable. 

Athos frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," Aramis said, looking back into the closet. Athos didn't think anything of the slight flush high on his cheeks--Aramis flushed when he was happy, uncomfortable, turned on, drunk: there were multitudes of reasons. "Here," Aramis said again, and tugged out a blue button-down.

Athos looked at it warily, as one might regard a live snake one has been told isn't dangerous, but still isn't quite sure. "My mother made me buy that for college interviews."

"Because it's the exact same color as your eyes," Aramis said, in that mock-patient tone he used when Athos was being oblivious. "Wear it over the t-shirt, and we'll put something in your hair."

Athos frowned between them. "Why are you dressing me up like a lamb for the slaughter?"

"I'm not dignifying that with a response," Aramis said loftily.

Porthos snorted again and made an imperious motion at Athos. "C'mere," he said, and he pushed himself up off the bean bag. "I'll take care of your hair."

Athos shook his head in amazement, but he moved to the window and sat on the sill anyway. He knew better than to argue, and they'd done this before. Porthos browsed through the bottles on Athos' shelf, making similar faces Aramis had when looking through the closet.

"I don't know why you're looking so disapproving," Athos said. "You bought me nearly all of those."

"And clearly none of them have been used," Porthos grumbled, taking a squeeze tube off the shelf. He held it up for Aramis' approval, and Aramis shrugged, then nodded. The _snap_ of the lid was very loud in the room, as were the slick sounds of Porthos squeezing gel in his palm and rubbing his hands together.

Porthos' fingers touched his hair, and Athos' eyes shut almost reflexively. They did this a lot--Porthos was forever critical of Athos' total lack of care for his appearance--and the gentle touch never failed to send an instant spike of calm through Athos' restless brain.

Porthos smoothed his hands through Athos' hair, tugging the strands back and laying them smoothly before going back to artfully muss them. It felt good--the gentle pull on his scalp, the brushes of Porthos' fingertips against his skin. His nose filled with the heavy floral smell of pomade and Porthos' spicier, musky shower gel. 

Athos sighed. The tension he'd been carrying all day eased more and more with every stroke of Porthos' fingers over his hair. 

About a half-second later he realized he'd just _sighed_ while his best friend fixed his hair. His eyes snapped open, and he looked up at Porthos, trying to hide the sudden surge of guilty panic. 

Porthos half-smiled and just shook his head once more, brushing Athos' bangs over his forehead. Athos felt inexplicably calmer seeing that wry grin, and he closed his eyes again until Porthos had done.

"There." Porthos moved back, and Athos felt a faint pang of loss as the hands left his hair. "Good?"

"Adorable," Aramis said dryly, about a note off from where he usually was--but he was having a bad day, so Athos forgave him. At any rate, "adorable" was not a word one could generally apply to Athos. 

He opened his eyes to see Aramis' faint, slightly perturbed smile. He tilted his head quizzically, a silent question, and Aramis shook his head, some of the lines in his face easing as he passed Athos the button-down. "Put it on, and I'll roll up your sleeves," he said, as Athos started to shrug on the light blue shirt.

Athos held his arms slightly out from his sides, feeling absurd, as Aramis walked around him and made minute adjustments to his wardrobe. He folded the sleeves back and tugged them halfway up Athos' arms, then rolled the bottom of that up his forearms, so the shirt cuff stood out above the roll. 

Aramis stepped back and folded his arms over his chest, squinting at Athos as he looked him up and down. "Yes?" he said, glancing over his shoulder at Porthos for affirmation.

Porthos rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone to check the time again. "Straight out of a J. Crew catalog. Can we go now?"

Athos crossed his arms, fixing them both with his best captain stare. "Not until you both explain to me why you're taking so much trouble." He didn't _understand_ this--well, he understood on one level very well: he knew they were dressing him up to be seen as an item on the market. And he knew why, since they were both always talking about how he could relax more, and they both knew, in a general way, how long it had been since he'd been physically intimate with _anyone._

He just didn't understand why _they_ were so invested in it.

Aramis flushed, and this was definitely a _guilty_ blush, Athos knew that one well. "We just want you to show to your best advantage."

"Why?" Athos pressed.

Porthos looked up from his phone. "Do you want to get fucked tonight?" he said, blunter than a baseball bat.

Blood flooded up into Athos' face, pounding in his ears and making the whole world fade for a moment. He swallowed. 

Did he? It had been a very, very long time since he'd been... _fucked,_ as Porthos so very eloquently had put it. He was twenty-one, of course he _wanted_ to, but tonight? Like this? With the three of them tense and awkward with each other, and all because a few of them had decided they maybe wanted to try something different?

_Do you want to get fucked tonight?_

"I suppose." His voice sounded strange to his own ears. 

Porthos shrugged one shoulder and looked back at his phone. "Then we're helping. We just want you happy."

Athos looked down at his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis look away, too. Aramis did _not_ look happy that Athos was happy.

Athos was not, in fact, sure that he _was_ happy. "Thank you," he said after a moment, trying to approximate his usual dryness, "for your tender concern."

Porthos chuckled, and Aramis seemed to relax. "All right," he said briskly, clapping his hands together, and he grabbed his jacket from the foot of Athos' bed. "We really should go now."

"You two are just going like that?" Athos protested mildly. "After the enormous production that was getting _me_ ready?" Aramis and Porthos looked much the same as usual--they'd both put on different shirts, and Porthos wore slightly darker jeans. He'd also shaved, and he'd swapped his customary gold earring for a simpler stud. It made him look older, more serious, and it unsettled Athos for some reason.

Aramis had done his usual invisible magic with his own hair, the wild strands all sticking out at just the right angle to perfectly frame his face, and his eyes looked different. Athos wondered idly if Aramis was wearing eyeliner, then just as quickly decided he didn't really want to know. So far, every time Aramis had gone out wearing eyeliner, things had gotten even more out of hand than usual and he'd left a string of broken hearts in his wake--most notably Athos and Porthos'.

Porthos flashed Athos a lopsided grin, then threw an arm around his shoulders and steered him out the door. "Aramis and I don't need the same help you do."

"Oh, _thank_ you," Athos drawled, as his best friends frog-marched him to his doom.

-

Baudelaire Hall was older than Alexander, and felt it. Alexander had been built in the seventies, and it was very boxy and plain, with just enough Mod to feel slightly trashy. Baudelaire was one of the oldest dormitories, built in 1902, and though it had been updated over the years, it still felt antique, with its hardwood floors and delicately carved bannisters.

The rollicking party spilling through half of the fourth floor clashed horribly with the delicate feeling of the building, but Athos sort of liked the contrast. New and old, melding together in a crazy haze of music and booze and laughter.

Ninon met them at the top of the stairs. She had a blue plastic cup in her hand, and she'd let half of her hair down from the bun she'd had it in at the open practice that morning. Light gold curls cascaded down her neck and over her shoulders (bare; she wore a white tank top with gold sequins, and he did not, did _not_ stare at her cleavage), and she'd put on a little more makeup than she'd had on that morning. She looked really, really good. 

"Glad you could make it," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Two questions."

"Yes?" Aramis asked brightly.

"One: is Constance's boyfriend always such an utter drip, and two: is that little one even old enough to drink?"

"Yes and no, in that order," Athos said firmly. "Do not let anyone give the little one anything."

Ninon threw back her head and laughed, and she slipped her arm into the bend of Athos', leading them into the hallway proper. "Come on into Rochelle's room and get a drink," she said. "Every room on this end of the hall has been surrendered to party use."

As they passed the open doors, Athos could see people lounging on beds, chairs, floors, talking in some rooms, dancing in others. It was a pretty good party. "Does your resident director get upset?"

"Rochelle tends bar very carefully," Ninon said. "No one gets trashed. And we clean up afterward."

Athos smiled at her. "Very responsible."

She tossed her hair, smiling slightly, and he'd never before realized how she held her head so high, how long and straight and lovely her neck was. 

"Good party," Porthos said approvingly, looking around into the other rooms.

"Certainly bustling," Aramis said, his eyes already starting to brighten. Aramis could never stay unhappy for long in the midst of a party. A few people called his name from one of the open doors, and he waved, grinning. "You said drinks, Ninon?"

She led them into one of the open rooms, where the table from the kitchen had been dragged against one of the windows to make a bar. A girl about as tall as Porthos stood behind it, her long braids tied back in a scarf, and Athos had the very vivid impression of meeting Porthos' female double.

"Hey, 'Chelle," Porthos said, grinning, reaching across to put an arm around her shoulders. At first Athos thought it was just another case of Porthos knowing someone _everywhere_ on campus, but the nickname jarred Athos' memory. She'd had a lot of classes with Porthos, and the two of them had organized a book drive with the African-American student org. He and Aramis had been dragooned into hauling boxes of books, but they'd never actually met Rochelle.

"Are these your boys?" Rochelle asked, cuffing Porthos good-naturedly. "Thought they'd be cuter, the way you never shut your mouth about them."

"What way is that?" Aramis asked brightly, sidling up beside Porthos instantly. "Spare me no details; I love hearing about myself. Porthos, what have you been telling people?"

Porthos, brick red, grabbed for the first Solo cup he saw on the table and knocked it back hastily to avoid having to answer. Athos and Ninon exchanged a sideways glance, then looked quickly away to avoid bursting into laughter. Athos had to admit, though--he was a little curious how Porthos had spoken about them, if he'd given Rochelle _that_ impression.

"He's definitely told me about that time you got blazed and thought you were catching Pokemon in the woods," Rochelle said, giving Aramis an unimpressed eyebrow and handing him a Solo cup of wine.

Aramis smiled even wider. He loved a challenge. "You're just jealous of my shiny Charmander."

Rochelle snorted. "Boy, your Charmander ain't that shiny." She handed off another cup to Porthos and jerked her chin to the room across the hall. "Go tell Alice you're here."

Porthos fumbled his second cup and nearly spilled it, and he flashed her a nervous grin. Aramis' face flickered frozen for a half a second before he hitched his smile back up and pushed Porthos toward the door. "Well, go on, then."

Porthos gave him a _watch yourself_ look. "Rochelle, if he gets too obnoxious, feel free to punch him, his head's hard enough."

Rochelle grinned at him. "We're just talking. You, go."

"Want to explore?" Ninon asked Athos, as Porthos headed for the door. She hadn't moved her arm from where she'd slipped it through his, and she used it to steer him towards the hallway, as well.

Athos grabbed a cup of wine from the table before they moved too far away. He wasn't sure he could get through this night without at least a little help. "Sure."

Porthos had already settled in across the way, and through the semi-open door Athos could see Porthos sitting on the floor at the foot of someone's bed. Alice sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down so she could talk to him, and already they were going strong, so deep in conversation it looked like they'd been talking for hours.

Something twisted in Athos' chest at the sight of them. It was fine, he told himself. It was good for Porthos to have friends. It was good for _all_ of them to have friends. 

Only it wasn't them just being _friends_ he was worried about, was it?

"Did you say Constance was here?" Athos asked Ninon, trying to distract himself.

"Oh, yes, her and her little puppy dog of a first year." And to Athos' horror, she led him into the same room as Porthos and Alice. There were other people, people Athos didn't know or vaguely recognized, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Constance and Jacques sat in desk chairs opposite the bed, and d'Artagnan sprawled on the floor. 

"No," Athos said the moment he saw the blue Solo cup in d'Artagnan's hand, and he swooped forward and snatched it up. "Whatever this is, you are too young to be drinking it."

"It's just wine, Athos," the boy grumbled.

Athos glared at him suspiciously and sniffed it. It was, undoubtedly, cheap wine, and a quick glance at his own cup confirmed the same. He shrugged and poured d'Artagnan's cup into his, then tossed the empty cup back to his friend. "You may have water."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes expressively.

"I told you he'd do that," Constance said primly, flashing Athos a smile. Her shoulders seemed tight, and Athos wondered if it was because Jacques had his arm on her chair again. 

"He does seem predictable in some ways," Ninon said, tugging Athos down to sit on the floor with her. Before Athos had too much time to blush at the two of them treating him like he wasn't there, Ninon laid a calming hand on his wrist and smiled up at Constance. "You two are partnered for the Cyrano translation, right? How's it going?"

Athos had nearly forgotten they had things in common to actually talk about. With a little help from Constance, they managed to talk for nearly an hour straight, mostly about French--and some in French, to Athos and d'Artagnan's private glee, because it meant Jacques looked irritated and left out. He knew it was petty, but he took his victories where he could find them.

It was amazingly easy to talk to Ninon. He couldn't believe he'd never tried it before. Her family was French, too ("obviously," she laughed, "with a name like de Larroque"), and she liked Rimbaud better than Baudelaire. She'd spent her last Christmas break volunteer teaching sex ed classes at the Planned Parenthood clinic in her hometown, and they spent a good fifteen minutes sharing teaching horror stories. She'd grown up in Maine, but her family spent summers at the same insanely wealthy private enclave in Cape Cod that his family did, so they could even complain about _that_ to each other. 

It was incredibly gratifying to know that she wasn't just beautiful and intelligent and interested in him--he could actually talk to her. They could carry on a conversation. Athos was _stunned._

The topic had turned back to their French class (in French, so Jacques was sulking silently and d'Artagnan was beaming beatifically), and Ninon and Constance were complaining to each other about the total lack of proper accents among ninety percent of their classmates. Athos took the opportunity to drink about half his cup of wine in one go. He was self-aware enough to know this wasn't really healthy, needing alcohol to calm himself enough to be able to act like a rational human--but until he had the time and self-esteem to go to an actual therapist, this would have to do. 

D'Artagnan caught his eye and gave him a stern look, which Athos roundly ignored. D'Artagnan was curled at Constance's feet like a guard dog, and thus he _really_ couldn't talk about ill-advised party decisions. If Porthos had been flashing him censorious looks, that would be one thing, but Porthos was totally absorbed in Alice. Athos tuned into their conversation long enough to hear four different types of sociological jargon in as many seconds, then tuned back out with a twinge of regret. 

If he looked closely enough, he thought, he could _see_ Porthos slipping further and further away.

"You look sad," Ninon said, her hand on his tightening slightly, and Athos started, looking back at her. Constance was talking with some of the other people sitting on the bed, and Ninon's attention had shifted back to him. She was watching him closely, and her eyes were soft with something--sympathy, he thought, or maybe it was pity. (God, he hoped it wasn't.) "You always look a little sad, actually," she went on. "It was why I first started noticing you."

Athos managed a faint smile, looking down into his cup so he wouldn't have to look at her. "I suppose I'm an interesting puzzle to you."

"Well, yes," she said candidly, and she shifted in her seat. Her leg pressed up against his, and Athos took another fortifying sip of wine. "Most people I go after are very receptive. You've played hardest to get so far."

Again, he was impressed by her forthrightness. Ninon didn't play games. It made it easier to talk to her--and for once, he wanted to be candid in return. "My last relationship with a woman ended...badly," he said. That was about as explicit as he could get before his body very vividly recalled the sour-sweet taste of wine and bile, semi-conscious and half-crying on the bathroom floor. His stomach lurched, and Athos carefully set down his cup, still half-undrunk. "I suppose it's made me skittish."

"I'm sorry," she said, and sounded like she meant it. "And I didn't mean to pry," Ninon added, and Athos found himself actually calmed by the trace of her fingers over his wrist. Normally the only people he could handle touching him were Porthos and Aramis, and sometimes Constance. He guessed it was because he already knew Ninon's intent--as in, yes, she _did_ want to sleep with him; it took a lot of the guesswork out of their interaction, and halved the anxiety on his part.

"It's all right," he said, and surprised himself to mean it. "I just don't talk about it very much." _At all,_ he thought dryly. He was honest enough with himself to know he never would have told Porthos and Aramis--not ever--if Anne hadn't reappeared so suddenly.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" she asked, looking him right in the eye. "If I'm pushing too hard, just say so."

Athos blinked. He'd never had anyone ask that before. Not even Porthos and Aramis--they usually just knew, with that sixth sense the three of them had for each other, when he wasn't okay. Very rarely had they had to ask. He liked that, he liked feeling _known_ so well, but it also felt...nice, having someone just ask. "No," he said. "No, but thank you."

Ninon smiled, and it was a slow-breaking sunrise, smaller and subtler, more private, than Aramis' smiles--the only other smiles that made him feel this weak at the knees. "Do you want to go dance?" she asked him, her fingers still playing lightly, gently, over his wrist.

He hadn't danced at a party since high school. Since Anne.

"Sure," Athos said, and let her pull him to his feet again.

D'Artagnan winked at him as he left, but Porthos barely even looked up. Athos wondered if he'd even noticed they'd been there.

No. No, he wasn't going to think about that. Ninon's hand was soft and warm in his--when had they started holding hands?--as she led him two doors down to where people had cleared out one of the double rooms for dancing, and he was thinking about Ninon. She deserved nothing less than his full attention.

As Ninon tugged him into the close press of people, Athos realized he actually knew the song. Someone must have made a throwback playlist, because these were the songs he'd danced to back in high school, when he and Anne would sneak into bars with fake IDs and spend the whole night there. (That was as far as he let his mind go to those memories before he shoved them forcefully away.) Besides, he'd lived with Porthos for two and a half years--he knew "Empire State of Mind."

Ninon guided his hands to her hips, for which Athos was grateful--he'd have otherwise spent ten minutes panicking about where he was allowed to touch her--then wrapped her arms around his neck and settled her head against his chest. 

And then they just moved together.

He hadn't forgotten how to do this. That was the first most surprising thing. He'd spent so long trying to forget everything he'd ever done with Anne, everything about the person he used to be, that he didn't think he'd know how to do this anymore--the dip and sway and slow pulse of dancing close, holding someone, feeling warm breath on his neck and the seething rock of other moving bodies.

The second surprising thing was that this still felt good. 

He had no idea how long they stayed there--he lost count of the songs, as they flowed seamlessly into each other, keeping time only by the way Ninon moved: her face tucked into his shoulder, or turning so her back was pressed against his front. His whole body echoed with a faint, slow buzz of arousal, not urgent, just--present. And he could tell, in the times when Ninon turned to him and settled her chest against his, that she was feeling it, too. The small, crowded room was close and sticky with sweat and humidity--someone had opened the window to let the October chill in, but it barely registered--and Ninon's skin glistened in the low light. He couldn't stop touching it, tracing his hands over her arms and the occasional strip of abdomen where her shirt rode up. God, but she was magnificent.

He lowered his head against hers when she turned again to lean back against him, and his breath brushed the wispy golden curls at the base of her neck. Ninon shivered and looked over her shoulder at him, eyelashes low and her eyes dark and challenging.

And suddenly Athos flashed vividly back to the frat party, when he'd gone to get Aramis off the floor--and Aramis had given him that exact look. 

Something hot and wanting and _guilty_ clenched low in the pit of his chest, and Athos closed his eyes and tried to breathe. 

Ninon turned in the circle of his arms, and Athos opened his eyes when he felt her hands on his face. She was watching him, her eyes intent, and her fingers traced lightly down over his brow, his cheekbones. She traced her thumb over his bottom lip, and Athos' eyes zeroed in on hers.

"Do you want to come back to my room?" she asked, so quiet he could barely hear over the music.

Athos' heart jumped into his throat. The music was too loud suddenly, the air too hot to breathe. 

Porthos' voice echoed in his head. _Do you want to get fucked tonight?_

He wanted this, didn't he?

"Yeah," he said, his voice foreign to his own ears. "Yeah, let's go."

Ninon smiled slowly, another one of those wave-cresting-and-breaking smiles, and her hands slid down his arms to twine her fingers in his. "Come on."

The world moved in a dreamlike combination of slow motion and sudden skips. Her hands lingered forever on his, her first backward steps towards the door agonizingly slow--then they were in the hall, and she flashed him a look over her shoulder as she led him to a door at the far end--and then she was closing that door behind him, and the click of the lock moved like ripples through the room. He could still hear the music in the hall, but it was muted, muffled, like more than a door stood between them and the world outside.

He looked around, his mouth dry and his head completely empty of words. The only light came from a string of white Christmas lights draped over the top of the bookshelf, casting a cream-colored glow over everything. The curtains and comforter were matching off-white, and except for the pile of cardigans on her desk chair, she kept her room pristine. Everything about Ninon was soft, white light.

"Very nice," he said, and instantly cursed himself for a fool.

It must have shown on his face, because Ninon laughed softly, gently, and stepped in close to him.

They kissed.

And time did another dreamlike jump, because then they were on her bed, and Athos didn't remember how they got there. He remembered standing in the middle of her room, his hands on her hips as they tentatively explored each other's mouths--and then they must have come to some kind of decision, because now he was on his back on her bed, her comforter cool and soft against his sweat-damp back. It smelled like her--not soft and floral, like he'd expected, but citrus and spice. 

Ninon filled every single one of his senses. His eyes were closed, but he could still see the last few moments before he'd closed them, replaying on loop--Ninon's eyes, compelling and impossibly close, as she stretched up to bite gently at his bottom lip. Every one of her curls wrapped around his fingers like a caress, and her soft, heavy breathing was more intoxicating than any drug he'd ever taken.

And _God,_ could she kiss.

Athos lost time in the slow drag of her lips against his, the slide of her tongue, the soft bites against his lips, tentative, almost, like she was trying to see how much he liked, how much he wanted. It made him nervous that he wasn't doing quite enough for her--he had his hands in her hair, and she seemed to like it, from the small, appreciative noises she made every time his fingers stroked against her scalp, tugging gently through her curls. But it was good, he liked this, it felt good.

Ninon lay on top of him, stretched out over his body, with her chest pressed to his and her legs twined in his. She seemed content to stay that way, keep things slow and gentle, just like this--

And then Athos took a chance and broke away to kiss the side of her neck, and Ninon let out a soft sound and shifted her legs against his. Her thigh pressed against his groin, and suddenly Athos realized he was achingly hard in his jeans. _Oh, fuck,_ he thought wildly, his heartbeat thudding loud in his ears, he'd just fucked it up, he'd--

But Ninon laughed and did it again, arching her neck so he could kiss her there some more, and Athos went lightheaded with relief and arousal. He mouthed at her neck for all he was worth, finding the spots that made her sigh, then took another chance and slid one hand to her waist. 

Ninon growled her approval. She pressed her leg against him again, and Athos tried not to swear. His breath caught in his chest as he rocked against her thigh, just once, unable to help himself, and Ninon let out another breathy laugh. "It's okay," she said, and reached down to cover his hand with hers. 

She slid his hand up her shirt to cup her breast, and Athos bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He loved how direct she was, he really did. He slid his hand over her breast, then slightly harder, figuring out how she liked to be touched, and he could feel her nipple tighten even through the silky material of her bra. She really wanted this, he thought dizzily. She wanted _him._

His body hitched up against hers almost without his conscious thought, his hips rocking against her as she rocked against him. He hadn't let himself do this in so long, feel any pleasure with another person, and something felt like it was fracturing in his chest, a cold stone wall breaking and letting something _else_ flood out, something that maybe wasn't him, or used to be him. 

He didn't know. He was just-- _breaking,_ he was breaking, and it felt good but he was drowning, suddenly, air scalding his throat and his stomach lurching with the flood of _him_ that was breaking out of the deepest parts of him, and he couldn't bear it--no one should see that, no one should ever see that part of him--

Especially not Ninon, who broke the world apart and reformed it according to her wish, who made him feel like he needed to be better, not just the pathetic thing he was, and he didn't know what parts of him were trying to claw their way back up to the light, and it _scared_ him--

Ninon pulled back, just a bit, and laid a hand over his breastbone. "Athos, your heart's beating out of your chest," she said, her eyes dark on his, with heat, with worry. "Are you okay?"

He opened his mouth to say _yes, of course_ \--and choked on it.

He took a breath, then another, then closed his eyes and fell back in her sheets. "No," he said, his voice as steady as he could make it. "No, I don't think so, I'm sorry."

She rolled off him instantly, but she stayed close, her body pressed against his side and her hand still on his chest, and Athos was unspeakably grateful. He kept an arm around her, so she'd know she was welcome, and brought the other one up to his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow. What was _wrong_ with him? Why he couldn't he _do_ this for her?

"It's all right," she said softly, stroking her hand across his chest. "Athos, it's all right, I don't mind."

"I do," he said. His eyes were still closed. He couldn't bear to look at her. "You brought a man back to your room, not some pathetic bundle of emotional baggage."

She shoved gently at him, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, she was frowning at him, her tousled curls falling in her face. "You aren't pathetic," she said, like it was a statement of fact, and not the dubious premise he knew it to be. "I'm so sorry if I rushed you--"

"It isn't you," he said instantly. God, no, he didn't want her to think that, it wasn't her at all. "It's my own shit. Really."

She propped her head up on her hand, looking down at him with a gentle half-smile. He couldn't stand her kindness right now, he didn't deserve it, but the selfish little creature in his soul would take it as long as she was willing to give it. "I'm not your first, am I?"

Ridiculously, _that_ made him blush. "No. No, definitely not."

"No, I mean--" She bit her lip, searching for the word. "Am I your first--outside of them?"

Athos blinked.

_Them?_

Surely she didn't mean--

"What do you mean, outside of them?" he asked slowly, turning onto his side to face her.

She blinked at him in return, then some kind of understanding dawned in her eyes and a slow flush spread over her face. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she half-laughed, pressing her hand to her mouth. "I guess I just assumed--"

"What?" 

Ninon tilted her head at him, a perplexed smile on her face. "But...you're really not?"

Athos gave her a look. "Ninon, I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Aramis and Porthos," she said, and Athos was so glad he was already lying down. He'd have lost all sensation in his legs at that. "I thought you three had an open relationship."

If she'd hit him over the head with a brick, she couldn't have stunned him more.

"I can see I was wrong," Ninon said a few moments later, clearly reacting to whatever look of flat shock was on his face.

Athos nodded slowly, too deep inside the tunnel of his own head to care. 

All _three_ of them? She'd thought that? Did other people think that?

Was that something that could even _happen?_

"We're not like that," he said finally, well aware of how weak that was, of how weak his _voice_ was, because if he'd thought his stomach was churning before, he had no idea what it was doing now. He sat up, suddenly, startling Ninon off his side. He didn't know if he was going to be sick or if he was just panicking--panicking, suddenly, because _could that happen,_ was that even--

No, no, of course it couldn't, because Aramis didn't want them that way, and now Porthos had Alice, and Athos had just had a fucking panic attack in Ninon's bed so clearly _that_ wasn't going to happen--

"Breathe, Athos," Ninon ordered him, putting a calming hand on his back, and Athos buried his face in his hands. He took one deep breath, then another.

"We're in love with him," he said suddenly, the words flooding up from his heaving, twisting stomach, worse than being sick because this was _confession,_ this was awful, but he couldn't keep it in anymore. "Porthos and I, with Aramis. But he doesn't know, he never could, he doesn't think of us that way--he thinks of everyone else on the planet that way, but not us, never us."

There. He'd said it. 

He sat frozen, miserable, waiting for her to throw him out of her bed, because what else was there to do?

"Oh, Athos," Ninon said, soft and sad--and then she put her arms around him, her chest pressed to the back of his shoulder, and Athos' arms came up to cover hers almost reflexively. 

She kept managing to surprise him.

"Sorry," he said again, because he had no idea what else to say. "I've never done the hookup thing before, but I can guess that telling the person with whom you're currently in bed that you're in love with someone else is poor form."

"You absolute fool of a man," Ninon said, and kissed his shoulder. "You've never told him?"

"Not once. Porthos and I both figure it's better just to keep what we have, even if it's not everything we want." He felt shaky and weak-jointed, relieved and desperately unhappy in equal parts, because it was miserable to talk about their absurd situation, but _talking_ about it at all lifted such a weight off his chest. 

"I suppose," Ninon said quietly. She didn't sound convinced, and Athos couldn't blame her. He wasn't very convinced by it himself, but what else could they do? A world without Aramis in it wasn't much of a world, for him or for Porthos.

"It's kind of you to listen to all this," he said with a rueful laugh, twisting to look at her. "I know it's a mess."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "I suppose you needed this more than a quick lay tonight."

"It would have been a decently long lay," Athos disagreed, half-smiling at her. "I do have _some_ good qualities."

"No doubt," Ninon said, reaching up to stroke his hair back from his forehead. "One question, though."

"Of course."

"Do you feel like you're cheating on them, being here with me?"

He'd never thought about it like that before.

But now that she'd said it, and this strange, unknowable thing had unlocked in his chest, Athos thought about the way he'd felt as they dressed him for the party tonight, the strange reluctance, the need for them to explain themselves.

And when she'd asked him to come back to her room, that had been guilt boiling up in his chest, just for a moment before he ruthlessly crushed it down.

"We're so fucked," he sighed, dropping his forehead against the knee he'd pulled to his chest. "I'm so sorry for wasting your time, Ninon."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" she said, in that wonderfully abrupt way she had. Ninon did not suffer fools, not even well-meaning ones. "I'd like to think we've clawed our way to a friendship tonight. We spent a perfectly pleasant hour talking, and the dancing and kissing were a nice bonus on top."

Athos smiled, his face hidden by his leg. She'd probably hear it in his voice, but that was all right. "I suppose."

"I usually don't come out of these pursuits with a friend," Ninon said, rubbing his back comfortingly. "Just another notch on the bedpost, more times than not. Believe me, I'm happier to forgo the one for the other."

Athos lifted his head and turned to her. She smiled at him, a kind, warm smile that was no less lovely for the lack of intent in it, and he was relieved they'd managed to salvage something from this trainwreck of an evening. "Thank you, Ninon," he said, and leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek.

"Any time," she said, stroking a friendly, familiar hand through his hair. She reached down to straighten her shirt hem, then, and climbed past him, off the bed. "Since I'm not trying to seduce you anymore, do you mind if I change? The sequins on this itch."

Athos very nearly laughed out loud, falling back onto her bed and running a hand over his face. "Go ahead," he said. "I won't peek."

"I don't mind if you do," she said, "you've already had your hands all over." She flashed him a wink and opened her closet door, and Athos was delighted to see the utter mess inside. Her backpack and a pile of laundry lay haphazardly inside, and Ninon flashed him a guilty look over her shoulder. "You've caught me."

"The hasty pre-hookup clean?" he asked, unable to stop smiling, and Ninon laughed. She took her backpack and tossed it back out near her desk, freed of the charade of neatness, then reached in to pull a t-shirt off a hanger.

She stepped into the closet to change, leaving the door open, and despite what she said, Athos didn't look. That felt just a little too much like cheating, as well. He pulled out his phone to check the time instead, and started at how late it was. "It's twelve-thirty," he groaned, shoving his phone back into his pocket. They'd been gone for an hour and a half. He shuddered to think of what Aramis and d'Artagnan could have gotten up to, unsupervised, in an hour and a half.

"Need to go check on your boys?" Ninon asked, stepping out of the closet and flipping her long hair out of the collar of her shirt.

Athos nodded, pushing himself up with another groan. His body protested leaving this quiet, safe place, yearning back for the bed and the warm understanding Ninon offered, but he shoved those feelings down and away. He had other places he needed to be. 

"Lunch after French on Tuesday?" she offered casually as she unlocked her door.

Athos smiled at her. "Sure."

They stepped into the hallway, and the music still pulsed through the space, like no time had passed at all. A few people sat against the walls, cups in hand--some clearly drunk and needing air, some just talking, and more people leaned in various doorways as all the open rooms out into the hallway. 

Anne was one of them.

"Fuck," Athos said, stopping dead.

"What?" Ninon asked, touching his hand, just as Anne looked up and saw him. Saw him coming out of Ninon's room, hand in hand with her, with wild hair. 

The last time, he realized abruptly, the last time he'd snuck away at a party, it had been with Anne, to have a quick and dizzy fuck against the alley wall. He still remembered the cold scratch of brick against his hands, her legs heavy around his waist, everything hazy and sharp at once through the fog they lived in together.

Her lip curled slightly, and the cold stab of her green eyes cut him to the core.

That was all it took, for the two of them, with all the history they had, with how well they knew each other. One look, one heavy, loathing look, and he was crawling out of his skin with sickness and shame.

"Nothing," Athos said, his voice ringing hollow to his own ears, and he tore his eyes away from Anne, looking desperately around for Porthos, Aramis, anyone. "I need to go, though."

"What's the matter?" Ninon pressed, looking around. She couldn't fail to notice Anne, the only person looking at them, and the cold, hateful smile playing around her lips. Athos felt her bristle, and he pulled her down the hall and into the closest open room--anything to get them out of Anne's line of sight. 

"Who the hell," Ninon snapped, "is that woman looking at you like she owns you?"

"That last relationship I told you about," Athos sighed, his throat tight and his head aching. He needed a drink. "She works for Student Affairs."

"Ah," Ninon said, the single syllable loaded with meaning, and she shook her head. "You shouldn't let her force you out of places you want to be."

Athos bit back the _I know_ he wanted to hurl, and took a breath instead. "That's something you say to people who are a slightly further stage of closure than the two of us are." 

He looked around, just then realizing they'd ducked back into the room with the makeshift bar. Rochelle sat on the windowsill behind the table, reading a book, ignoring all the people chatting and drinking around her, and Athos envied her.

"Rochelle?" he called, and she glanced up. "Have you seen Aramis or Porthos?"

"Porthos was in here a few minutes ago," she said, thinking about it. "Got some water for your little puppy dog. Haven't seen Aramis since he went off with that tall hunky guy, like, an hour ago."

Athos squeezed the bridge of his nose. There were too many problems in that sentence for him to process.

"Oh, shit," Ninon sighed. She tugged on his hand. "Come on, let's find Porthos and your puppy first. Then I'll go smash Aramis' nose in for you."

"It's fine," Athos said, even though it wasn't. He'd grown numb to Aramis slipping off for clandestine quickies with women, but he slipped off with men so much less that Athos hadn't built up quite the same thick skin for it. And it felt more personal, somehow--if Aramis was looking for a quick tumble with a man, he had two very willing ones close, if he'd just _see._

They found Porthos and d'Artagnan in the room where they'd left them, mercifully, sans Alice, Constance, and Jacques, playing Cards Against Humanity with a group of people Athos knew for a fact they'd never met before. To his mingled approval and horror, d'Artagnan was winning by a mile.

Porthos glanced up and grinned at him. _"There_ you are. You'd never believe the filthy mind this kid's got, it's really--" He trailed off as he noticed Ninon, in different clothes and as mussed as Athos was, and a storm of emotions flickered across Porthos' face so quickly Athos couldn't track any of them. "Really something," he finished, his eyes darting to Athos' face. 

There was a myriad of questions in Porthos' gaze, but one more than any other, a question Athos saw in Porthos' eyes so very often: _Are you okay?_

"I'm fine," Athos said, answering that question first. "But Anne's here, and I think I'm just going to go."

Porthos dropped his hand of cards and rolled easily to his feet. "I'll come with," he said, and Athos had never been more grateful for him. 

"Need me?" d'Artagnan asked, looking swiftly up at him.

Athos shook his head. He didn't want to ruin _everyone's_ night. "Stay and mentally scar more people with your filthy mind." 

"Cheers," d'Artagnan laughed, grinning up at him.

"Do you know where Aramis is?" Porthos asked as they walked out into the hallway.

Athos shrugged. "Rochelle said he disappeared with, quote, some 'tall hunky guy' about an hour ago."

Porthos grimaced. "Oh, great."

"I just want to tell him we're going," Athos said, glancing into the other rooms along the hall. "He doesn't have to come if he's busy." Ninon let out a very indelicate snort, and Porthos flashed her a startled--if pleased--look.

"He isn't here," a cool voice said from behind him, and all the muscles in Athos' back seized up. 

They all turned, and Porthos stepped in protectively close to Athos. Anne looked bored, leaning against a doorframe with a cup in her hand, and she gave Athos a lazy smile over the top of it. She looked disinterested, but Athos knew better. The basest and most hated parts of himself shivered at the cruel glitter in her eyes.

"Hello, Anne," Athos said, his voice carefully neutral. "Did you see him leave?"

"Hello, Athos," she said, and took another sip of her drink. "Aramis left down the back stairs with Kevin about twenty minutes ago." She smiled sweetly at them over her cup. "Kevin's boyfriend _Tom_ is in the bathroom, I think."

She knew what Aramis was to him. She _knew._ She could deliver the blow so casually, so totally indifferently.

He hated that his body still thrilled at the deadly look in her eyes.

Porthos stepped forward with a low growl, and Athos put a restraining hand on his arm. "And who are Tom and Kevin to you?" Athos asked her. "You haven't been here long enough to be on a first-name basis with drunk partygoers."

Anne batted her eyelashes at him, and Athos' blood ran cold. He'd seen her do that to other people, people who'd been cruel to her or to Athos, and then he'd watched her summarily dismantle their lives.

He'd used to love that about her, he thought distantly, the way she could destroy anyone who fucked with them. Why hadn't he seen how awful it was? Had he been that blinded by her?

"Oh, I know them very well," she said. "They're always in and out of Dean Richelieu's office to talk about the fraternity."

It took half a second for that to sink in.

"Fucking _shit,"_ Porthos swore, turning away and bolting for the back stairs. "They're fucking Red Guards--"

 _"Thank you,_ Anne," Athos half-snarled at her as he dashed after Porthos.

"Any time," she called in a hateful sing-song at his retreating back. 

Ninon caught up to them when Porthos had to yank the stair door open. "I'll stay," she panted, catching Athos' hand. "I'll try to send the boyfriend down the front stairs, he'll have to go through the lobby, you'll get a little more time--"

"Thank you," Athos said swiftly, squeezing her hand, then raced after Porthos down the stairs. 

The back stairs led straight to the courtyard outside, instead of the main stairs that just led to the lobby, and Athos could feel the chill of the night seeping in as they hurried down. It had gotten cold--it was already much colder, away from the sweat and humidity of the party, and he wished he'd brought a jacket. Then again, blinding rage did do wonders for body temperature.

"I'm going to fucking kill Aramis," Porthos growled, taking the steps two at a time. "A Red fucking Guard--does he ever think? Ever at all?"

"Clearly not." Athos could barely think around the urgency and the anger and the hurt pounding against the inside of his skull. If this turned into a fight--he couldn't let anything happen to Aramis or Porthos, anything to jeopardize their scholarships, so _he'd_ take the fall again, and he'd be off the team, off the next two tournaments--they'd never make regionals, and the _whole team_ deserved it--did Aramis ever think about anyone besides himself?

Porthos shoved through the door at the bottom of the stairs, and Athos hastily kicked it shut behind them--setting off the door alarm would be the last thing they wanted right now--and they looked around wildly.

Athos would know Aramis anywhere.

Right at this second, he _really_ wished he wouldn't.

Because he knew it was Aramis who stood pinned against one of the stone columns of the building's portico--because Athos knew the way Aramis' lean body arched, even if he could only see half of him around the tall, muscular frat boy with his tongue down Aramis' throat.

He and Porthos both stopped dead. Athos felt like he'd been clotheslined by a rope of barbed wire, slicing straight through his chest in a single red-hot line of pain.

"Fuck," he heard Porthos say again beside him, his normally rich voice devoid of any emotion. Porthos, Athos realized, had never actually stumbled on one of Aramis' trysts before. 

Porthos' hand slipped into Athos' and squeezed, _hard._

A loud _crash_ echoed through the cold air as Baudelaire's front door smashed open, and another tall figure came charging out of the foyer. _"Kevin!"_

 _Kevin_ broke away from Aramis, Aramis stumbled back against the column, and Athos and Porthos were in motion, hurrying across the lawn. 

Tom (Athos supposed) stormed across the lawn, shouting things Athos couldn't discern in the echoes from the columned portico. One thing Athos could _definitely_ discern, however, was the beeline angry Tom was making for Aramis, and that was definitely not going to happen.

"Tom, shut up," he heard Kevin saying angrily as they drew closer, "you're going to wake everyone up--"

"I don't give a shit," the furious boyfriend snarled, pushing past Kevin, "let everyone know what a fucking cheat you are--and you, you fucking slut--"

"I'm sorry, _who's_ a slut?" Aramis threw back angrily, taking a step forward, and then Porthos and Athos were there. Porthos grabbed Aramis and dragged him back, and Athos put himself between the angry Red Guards and the angry Musketeers. He realized almost instantly this was an utterly shit decision if he didn't want to start a fight.

"Get the fuck out of the way," Tom barked at him, starting forward--his boyfriend (well, maybe not anymore) grabbed his arm, pulling him back, but this guy was not in the mood to be restrained. "This isn't any of your goddamn business--"

"He's with us," Athos said, his voice low and level. _"He's_ our business."

Tom's lip curled, and he shoved forward again. "He's a fucking _whore,_ is what he is--"

Aramis lurched forward in Porthos' grip, infuriated. "You don't know _shit_ about me, you yuppie fuck--"

It could have gone _very_ badly from there if Athos hadn't put himself in front of Aramis and refused to move, even when Tom threw a punch at him. Athos ducked it, swayed inside Tom's guard, and pushed him back, _hard._ The guy staggered back, panting, and Athos planted his feet. "Instead of blaming the other man, why don't you talk to your cheating boyfriend?" he said, staring the man down. (He felt absolutely no guilt about throwing fucking _Kevin_ under the bus. It was him or Aramis, and even with a broken heart bleeding out in his chest, Athos knew where his loyalties lay.)

It did the trick. Tom rounded on his shamefaced boyfriend, and the two of them started yelling at each other instead. The angry couple retreated under the overhang of the portico, and Athos decided it was a safe time for them to leave. He turned on his heel, jerking his head sharply at Porthos, and Porthos nodded. "We're going home," he said to Aramis, and started to pull him across the grass.

That was where things went even more wrong.

"Get the fuck off me," Aramis spat, tearing himself free. Athos turned to look at him, and Aramis' face was even paler than usual in the moonlight, his dark eyes flashing and his hair a wild mess. He was beautiful. And he was _furious._ "What the _shit_ was that? You two aren't my keepers--"

"Excuse us for saving you from getting your ass kicked," Porthos said, equally incensed. "What were you thinking?"

"Or were you even thinking at all?" Athos cut in, his voice colder than he'd ever tried to make it before. "Did you know he had a boyfriend?" 

Aramis crossed his arms over his chest, shoving his hands under his arms. His tense, irritated breaths steamed in the cold air and the moonlight. "Of course I fucking knew. He wanted to make him jealous." His lip curled. "The jackass should have known you can't play mind games with a fucking Neanderthal."

"Did you know they were Red Guards?" Athos demanded.

Aramis looked down, his jaw ticking.

Cold anger like Athos had never felt before burned through his chest. Cold, because all the fire in him had died in the surge of _hurt._ _"Did you know they were Red Guards,_ Aramis?"

 _"Yes,"_ Aramis snapped, looking back up at him. "Yes, all right, is that what you want me to say--"

Athos lunged forward--he had no idea why, what impulse was in him, he just knew he needed to get his hands on Aramis, either to punch him or shake some sense into him or grab him and kiss him, and he didn't know what he would have done if Porthos hadn't grabbed _him_ and dragged him back. 

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Athos yelled, his own voice climbing into upper decibels as he struggled against Porthos. They were in the middle of some other dorm's courtyard, it was one in the goddamn morning, and he was yelling, and he didn't _care,_ he was so _angry._ "Did you fucking forget what happens if Richelieu finds out we're fighting his precious fraternity again?"

"Of course I didn't," Aramis snarled, his dark eyes too bright in the moonlight and golden spill of streetlamps, "but this didn't have _shit_ to do with you, Athos, so excuse me if I didn't worry about your precious honor--"

"I don't _care_ if I take the fucking fall!" Athos lunged against Porthos' grip again, but Porthos was immovable. Everything was spilling out of him, like earlier with Ninon, except this time it was all his jealousy and all his worry and all the stress and anxiety of everything he carried around day after day, and why didn't Aramis _get it,_ why didn't he _care?_ "I care if you get yourself killed by some jealous boyfriend, or if you lose your scholarship--"

Aramis shoved forward, angrier still, and Porthos had to catch him by the shoulder, too, to push him back away. "Stop it!" Porthos barked, but they were both too far gone to listen to him. 

"I'm not a fucking child!" Aramis yelled at Athos. "I don't need you two to make my decisions for me!"

"Well, clearly you do," Athos yelled back, "because you make _shit_ decisions on your own!" He wished he could stop, he _wanted_ to stop, but he couldn't, he wanted Aramis to hurt as badly as he hurt right now, and God, that was fucking sick, what was fucking _wrong_ with him?

"Both of you, stop," Porthos tried again, tense and unhappy in the middle, and again they both ignored him. 

Aramis' face was set in a bitter, pained sneer--he barely looked like himself, because Athos had never seen Aramis' open, lovely face twisted like this--and his voice cut Athos to the bone. "Oh, because you're the king of great decisions, aren't you, Athos?" He didn't have to say anything more. They all knew all the things that he meant.

It was a low blow. 

Athos reeled back like Aramis had hit him, too shocked to say anything immediately. Dimly he heard Porthos hiss _"Aramis"_ in furious censure, and even Aramis looked stunned by what had just come out of his mouth. They'd never, ever fought so viciously before, so caught up in vitriol and anger that one of them said something _that_ cruel.

Aramis blinked, looking horrified with himself, and his face looked so open, so _young_ in the half-dark. "Athos, I didn't mean that," he said, looking sick, but it was too little too late.

Athos swallowed, hard. "Yes, you did," he he said, his voice shaking only slightly. "Let us know when you decide your friends are more important than your fucking cock."

Aramis jerked back. His eyes went very wide-- _hurt,_ Athos thought for a horrible, guilty second--then his face shuttered into something cold and hard and bitter. 

"Go fuck yourself, Athos," he said, and turned and walked away. Porthos reached out for him, and Aramis knocked his hand away so quickly and so coldly that Porthos recoiled. 

Athos stood and watched him walk off across the field, toward the lake. A black hole of awful, gnawing emptiness was growing inside his chest, slowly consuming everything inside of him. 

What had he just done?

He jumped when he felt Porthos' hand on his shoulder. "Athos," Porthos said, like he'd said it two or three times already, and Athos realized he was shaking. "It's freezing, let's go home."

"Aramis," Athos said, staring after where he'd disappeared into the dark. "I--we shouldn't let him--"

"Let him cool off," Porthos said gently, and led Athos away across the grass.

The walk home--the opposite way that Aramis had gone--passed in a blur. Athos barely noticed the path around them, the pavement under his feet, the occasional pass of a campus patrol car on the road beside them. All of his thoughts swirled around one overriding, all-consuming fact: he'd finally ruined their friendship. 

He'd given in to all his jealous, petty, cruel impulses, and he'd thrown them all in Aramis' face. Was it any wonder Aramis had had enough?

They were up in his room before long, and Porthos turned on the heater before dropping onto the bed and looking up at Athos. "Would you please say something? You're freaking me out."

"I knew this would happen," Athos said, his voice distant to his own ears. He'd crawl out of his skin if he didn't move, so he paced--as much as anyone could pace in such a small room.

Porthos sighed and dropped his head into his hands, scrubbing through his short curls in a familiar, tired gesture. "Figured what?"

"This." Athos waved a hand, encompassing everything that had just happened. "I just didn't think it'd be so soon."

Porthos lifted his head, frowning at him. "Athos, what the hell are you talking about?"

He hadn't meant to say that aloud, but now that he had, the words just couldn't stop. "I always knew it couldn't last. It never has." Any friends he'd ever had were gone; everyone he'd ever cared about had died, or left, or hated him now. "I'd hoped it was going to be different, but since I've always driven everyone else who ever cared about me away--" He shrugged, pacing the length of his room as Porthos sat on his bed, staring up at him. His skin was too tight, nervous energy racing along the length of his spine, and he _couldn't stop talking._ "Athos the unlovable useless fuckup destroys his own life again."

"Stop!" Porthos stood and caught him in the middle of his stride, spinning him around. "Why do you talk about yourself like that?" 

He shrugged again, feeling as dead inside as if he'd drunk a bottle of wine by himself. "Well, isn't it true?"

Porthos stared at him, his hands heavy and hot on Athos' shoulders. "No."

Athos felt a despairing laugh trying to bubble up through his chest. "What part was wrong, then?"

 _"Everything,_ Athos, you--" Porthos broke off, and he looked like he was in actual, physical pain. He looked down, then, like he couldn't bear to meet Athos' eyes. "Have we ever made you feel like that? Have I?"

Athos tried to breathe, but couldn't. He hadn't meant to make Porthos think it was his fault. It was Athos. It was just the way he was. "No," he said numbly. "No, not you, never you."

Porthos let out a shaky breath, and for the first time Athos realized how close he was. Porthos' broad hands were still tight on his shoulders, his thumbs just on the edge of Athos' collarbones, and Athos had to tilt his head back to look Porthos' in the eye. Everything was off-balance and strange, and he swayed into Porthos' gravity, he couldn't help it.

"Not you," he said again, and shocked himself to realize it was true. Porthos always made him feel safe. Worthy.

Porthos looked up, then, his eyes dark and full of feelings Athos couldn't name, and all at once the air felt too hot to breathe again. It hurt, every breath scalding his throat and chest, and it wasn't like earlier, with Ninon, it wasn't like that at all--well, it was, a little, it was the same adrenaline-pulsing, heart-racing feeling, but there wasn't any guilt, there wasn't any fear. This was Porthos.

Porthos had already seen all his darkest, worst parts, and Porthos was still here.

Athos swayed into Porthos again. He couldn't look away from him--he hoped his own face wasn't too open, he had no idea what he was thinking or doing, but he felt steadier when he was closer to Porthos.

Porthos caught him, but his hands were closer in this time, his fingers tracing the skin at the base of Athos' neck, and Porthos looked like he couldn't breathe either. They stared at each other, wide-eyed and maybe afraid, a little, because this was different, this was undeniably a spark-- This was something they'd only ever thought would happen with Aramis, but here they were, just the two of them, and was this happening?

Athos tilted his head back further, feeling drunk, feeling dizzy, like he'd been hit over the head. And maybe he had, with this sudden revelation, that it was Porthos, too, who grounded him and made him feel like he was better, Porthos who could make his breath come short like this and his head swim with hazy need. Ninon had been right, he thought dazedly--it was the three of them.

Porthos stared at him, his eyes flicking back and forth across Athos' face like he was searching for something, and he looked a little lost, a little frightened, and Athos wondered if he, too, felt like the ground was suddenly reforming under his feet.

He stood there, frozen and terrified and wanting, and Porthos needed to make a move because Athos _couldn't._

It clicked in Porthos' face, then, a settling, a decision. Athos stared at him, every nerve in his body screaming _please,_ and he couldn't move, he couldn't blink, he couldn't even breathe--

Porthos' hands slid to frame his face, holding Athos almost gently, and Athos' heart shuddered to a stop as Porthos leaned in and kissed him.

Something exploded in the pit of Athos' chest. He sucked in a gasp, floored by the feeling that had burst up into him at the brush of Porthos' dry, chapped lips over his own, and Porthos pulled back, clearly panicking that he'd done something wrong, that he'd misread things--

Athos stunned them both when he flung his arms around Porthos' neck and dragged him back down into another kiss. It was Porthos' turn to gasp, his hands tightening on Athos' face, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones and fingers cradling the back of his skull, and Athos made a high, whining sound he'd never heard from himself before, pulling himself up Porthos' body so he could kiss him deeper, licking into his mouth and twisting his fingers into Porthos' short curls.

"Oh, fuck, Athos," Porthos groaned, and the sound of his voice sent a shudder all through Athos' body. He sounded absolutely _wrecked,_ and one kiss had done that, _Athos_ had done that. There was something fierce and wonderful rocketing through him, hot and fluid and overwhelming, pouring out of that fractured, broken place in his chest, and Athos pressed his whole body against Porthos, desperately seeking more. 

He wasn't scared to let Porthos see this, he realized with a force almost as dizzying as that first hit of overwhelming _need._ Porthos knew him. Porthos knew everything about him, and Porthos wanted this. He didn't have to hide anything from Porthos.

Porthos groaned again, and Athos couldn't stand it. He grabbed Porthos' shirt collar in his hands, turned him, and walked him backward until the back of his knees hit Athos' mattress. Porthos fell back, bracing himself with one hand, and Athos climbed into his lap, bracketing Porthos' hips with his knees. He couldn't stop kissing him, chasing that burning, perfect feeling, and Porthos' hands settled at his waist, stroking up under the hem of Athos' t-shirt. Athos hissed at the contact and pressed even closer. They'd touched each other's bare skin before, of course, but these tentative brushes were something else entirely.

"What about Ninon?" Porthos gasped suddenly, pulling back. There was actual pain on his face, but he pulled back anyway. 

"Nothing," Athos said, chasing Porthos' lips before he could stop himself. "I can't be like this with her. With anyone but you." 

Porthos groaned and stretched up to kiss him, and Athos kissed him back for a long second before he remembered he had a question of his own to ask. He pulled back, swallowed hard, and asked, "What about Alice?"

Porthos let out a harsh breath. "She's graduating early in December and moving to Vancouver," he half-laughed, reaching up to stroke Athos' hair back from his forehead. "And anyway, I'm too fucking crazy about the both of you."

Savage, furious joy rocketed up in Athos' chest, and he fell into Porthos with a low, rough sound, kissing him even harder, fisting his hands in Porthos' shirt and dragging him closer. 

Porthos broke their kiss with a choked sound when Athos' hips rocked hard against his, and he rested his forehead against Athos', panting. "Athos--you sure--"

"Yes," Athos said, digging his teeth into Porthos' swollen bottom lip just to taste his gasp.

Porthos kissed him again, twice, before finding his voice to say something else. "Shit--it's just--maybe we should slow down--?"

"Can't," Athos gasped, kissing him again. "Might reconsider. _Really_ want this, Porthos."

"You're _sure?"_

Athos fixed him with a glare. "Are you asking me because _you_ want to slow down," he said, "or are you trying to be a gentleman and give me an out?"

Porthos ducked his head, tracing his nose against Athos' in an almost sweet caress. "That last one," he confessed. Then he flashed him a lopsided grin--exactly like his usual one, only hotter, his eyes flashing with want, and Athos desperately wanted to kiss him. 

Oh. He could.

And he did, sealing his mouth across that slanted smile and kissing Porthos until he needed to break away for air, trying to convince Porthos exactly how totally unnecessary an out was. "It's a sweet gesture, though," he said breathlessly.

"You know me," Porthos said, slipping a hand under Athos' shirt and flattening his palm against Athos' hip. "Just promise me you aren't drunk?" He curled his other arm around Athos' waist, holding him still so Porthos could grind up against him, once, hard and slow.

Athos swore, bucking against him. That half-cup of wine had been hours ago. "Stone sober," he promised. _"Shut up."_ And he pushed Porthos back onto the bed, crawling over him and settling on his chest, his legs between Porthos' spread knees.

He'd always known Porthos was six feet and two inches of solid muscle, but feeling it in practice was something entirely different. Porthos was everywhere. His hands were on Athos' back, rucking up his shirt--and then in his hair, holding his head at just the right angle for Porthos' kiss to make him groan--and his legs framed Athos', his broad thighs on either side holding him steady. 

Athos made a disgustingly needy sound and pulled at the hem of Porthos' shirt. "Off," he said, "take this off--"

"You'd have to stop kissing me for five seconds," Porthos said, his voice almost a sigh, and Athos growled at him. Porthos laughed, then, and Athos sat back slightly so Porthos could lift up (his abs flexing distractingly under Athos' hands) and pull his shirt off. 

It wasn't the first time Athos had seen him shirtless, not by a long shot. But it was the first time all that smooth brown skin was there for him to touch, and Athos bent, compelled, to lick a long stripe up Porthos' breastbone.

 _"Fuck,"_ Porthos said through gritted teeth, one hand fisting in Athos' hair and the other pushing up on the hem of his shirt. 

Athos reared up, dragging his button-down off and ripping his shirt off over his head, and would have bent right back down if Porthos hadn't stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Porthos propped himself up on his elbow, gazing up at Athos with wide eyes, and Athos hesitated slightly under that intent look. "What?"

Porthos smiled that crooked grin again, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Athos' neck. "You know you're absolutely fucking gorgeous, right?" he said quietly, his voice deep and soft with sincerity. 

Athos stared at him, emotions twisting tangled knots in his chest. Then he lunged forward and tackled Porthos down to the bed, kissing him fiercely, furiously. Porthos grabbed him and responded in kind, with harsh, biting kisses that made Athos' whole body tingle. 

His hips pushed down against Porthos, craving the friction, and his mind went blank with _want_ when he felt Porthos hard against him. "God," he choked, close to overwhelmed already, and Porthos kept one arm around his waist, holding him tightly while his other slipped between them, working on his own belt buckle first.

"Athos, tell me this is okay," Porthos gasped, sounding as close to gone as Athos felt, and Athos buried his face in Porthos' neck, moaning open-mouthed against his skin. _"Athos."_

"Yes, fucking _yes,_ please," and he couldn't say anything else, nothing but _yes, yes_ into Porthos' skin, as Porthos unbuckled his jeans and fumbled with the zipper. _Yes_ as Porthos shoved his own jeans down, _yes_ as he pushed Athos' out of the way, _fuck, fuck, yes_ as Porthos got a hand around him.

No panic. No fear or anxiety. Just this.

Someone was moaning, a high, broken sound, and Athos realized it was _him,_ gasping desperately as he pushed his hips into Porthos' hand. He felt totally lost, rushing for an edge he could barely glimpse, but Porthos was there, Porthos was grounding him, and Athos could fall, it was fine, it was okay. 

"I've got you," Porthos gasped, his callused hand moving sure and strong on Athos' cock, and if _that_ thought wasn't enough to make Athos come on its own, it certainly pushed him a lot closer to the edge than he'd been before. "I've got you, Athos, come on, show me, I want to see you--"

Athos braced himself with one arm on the bed beside Porthos' head, holding himself up just a little, just enough to get some leverage. He opened his eyes, not sure when he'd closed them, to see Porthos below him, his chest heaving and his face open and wanting, and fuck, he was perfect, wasn't he?

"Perfect," Porthos said, his words a strange mirror of Athos' thoughts, and Athos didn't understand for a moment, until he realized Porthos was talking about _him._

That fierce, wonderful feeling hit hard under his breastbone, and Athos' jaw dropped open, choking on air as Porthos tightened his hand, and he was so close, so so so fucking close--

Porthos rocked up against him, just once, like he couldn't help it, and for a split second Athos felt the hot, slick slide of Porthos' cock against his own. 

Athos' orgasm hit him like a truck, blindsiding him with a wash of heat and pleasure so intense it _hurt._ He came all over Porthos' hand, Porthos' _cock,_ and another shock of pleasure-pain forced its way through his body at the sight.

Porthos made a rough, desperate sound like Athos had never heard from him before, and it was possibly the most gorgeous sound in the universe. He swore, his hips pistoning up once against Athos, just once, because once was all it took and then Porthos was coming, too.

Athos stared for a long moment, saving up the sight of the two of them covered in each other's come, then his arm gave out and he collapsed to Porthos' chest.

"God," Athos gasped again, resting his forehead against Porthos' shoulder.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, reaching up with his other hand and petting Athos' hair. His voice sounded thick, sex-drenched and rough, and Athos' whole body went up and down as Porthos caught his breath.

"Are you telling me," Porthos said finally, still a little breathless, "that we could have been doing _that_ all this time waiting for Aramis to get his shit together?"

Athos buried his face in Porthos' neck, beaming like a fool, and he finally realized what that liquid, wonderfully warm feeling was.

He was happy.

He propped his head up on one arm, smiling at Porthos, and Porthos' head rolled to the side so he could see Athos, and he was grinning, too. Relief swept through Athos' chest, loosening any tension that might have been threatening to start. Porthos didn't look like he was regretting anything--he was playing with Athos' hair, fingers twirling the sweaty strands in a totally distracting and not at all incredibly sexy way. Athos stretched up to kiss him again. 

Porthos made a pleased little hum, kissing Athos far more gently than any of the kisses that had come before, and Athos relaxed into it, able to just enjoy the touch without the desperate, aching need for more. And something else was gone, too--that tight and painful feeling that constantly beat under his ribs alongside his heart; maybe not gone, not entirely, because he knew it always came back, but quieted, for right now. Porthos thought he was perfect, and he trusted Porthos' opinion enough to believe him, at least until another bad day. 

"So," he said when they finally broke apart. He idly drummed his fingers on Porthos' collarbone, not quite knowing what to say, and flicked a glance up at Porthos, hoping he would.

It was a mark of how well they knew each other that Porthos knew exactly what he meant. Porthos' eyebrows lifted for a moment, and he sighed. "I literally have no idea, Athos. No regrets, but no idea where we go from here."

Athos nodded, dropping his head to Porthos' shoulder again, and he closed his eyes as Porthos stroked his hair. "I suppose we just play it by ear. I mean--" He lifted his head, flashing Porthos a worried look. "We...we don't want to tell Aramis about--"

"No," Porthos agreed hurriedly. "No, no, I don't really think he'd--I mean, he might--" He blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth. "Well, for starters, we'd have to explain we fell into bed because he broke our fucking hearts tonight, and that's a whole can of worms, so--"

"Good, we're agreed," Athos sighed, resting his chin on Porthos' breastbone. "Improvise, then?"

"Isn't that what we do best?" Porthos said, flashing him a smile, and Athos smiled back, feeling that strange warm-- _happiness,_ it was happiness--curling up in his chest again. The last time he'd slept with someone--with Anne--there hadn't been any of this, this warm tender afterglow that left him feeling cared for, supported. Anne would fuck him and leave him gasping and clutching for her, flailing and desperate for anything to ground him. Porthos had only let him fall exactly as far as he could take.

Athos twisted around and kissed him again, a slow, gentle press of lips, almost chaste, and Porthos' arms came up to wrap around him. It was surprising how natural it felt, almost effortless. No panic. No worry. Just the two of them.

"What did happen with Ninon, then?" Porthos asked, but the question was gentle. "Not jealous, just curious. You two seemed like you were getting on so well. You even told her about the ex, before you slipped off to dance."

Athos twisted up to frown at him. "You heard that?" he asked with some surprise. "I didn't think you were paying attention."

Porthos reached down to brush Athos' bangs from his eyes. One corner of his mouth tugged up in a lopsided, self-deprecating smile. "Pathetic as it sounds, I'm always paying attention to you."

Athos relished the warm curl of feeling in his chest. "That's not pathetic," he murmured, and leaned forward to press another slow kiss to Porthos' lips. Then he remembered Porthos had asked him a question, and he pulled back reluctantly. "We danced," he explained, drumming his fingertips on Porthos' collarbone. "And then she asked if I wanted to go back to her room, and--" He hesitated slightly, not quite sure how to word the revelation he'd had there, and not quite sure that he wanted to. It still felt too new, too personal. He'd need to find the words before he told Porthos.

"Not jealous," Porthos reminded him, nudging his arm gently, and Athos smiled. He was glad Porthos had read _that_ into his silence, instead of misgivings.

"We kissed," he sighed, nestling back down against Porthos. "I had a minor panic attack when I realized I didn't want to go all the way with someone I didn't want to show my rough edges to, and then we just talked. She's really great. We're going to be good friends."

"I'm glad," Porthos murmured, sincerity plain in his voice, and kissed his hair. 

They stayed that way until it started to get sticky, and Athos pulled away with a groan. "Oh, this is much messier than the last time I had sex."

Porthos laughed out loud as Athos climbed off his bed to grab a water bottle and a washcloth. "Tell me you've had sex with a man before, please."

"No," Athos said with great dignity, sitting back down and wiping them off, "but for all the times I've fantasized about it, I'd consider myself an expert." He tucked them both back into their jeans, carefully refastening their belts, and Porthos laughed again, sitting up and reaching out for him.

Porthos drew him close for another kiss, the same as the first one, with his hands holding Athos' whole head still and close, and Athos sighed against his lips. It felt so good, being held, being cared for. 

Porthos' phone buzzed against their legs, having fallen out of his pocket onto the sheets, and Porthos grumbled, glaring down at it. Athos didn't look, moving in to press a kiss to Porthos' temple, but Porthos' sudden tension startled him out of the moment. 

"It's Aramis," Porthos said, reaching down for it. 

The outside world reasserted itself with a terrible _thud._ Athos was abruptly, horribly aware of the reality of the situation, and the awful, cold dread pressed down on his chest like a weight. He'd just fucked one of his best friends while the other had stormed off in the middle of the night, in the mid-October cold. 

From the look on Porthos' face, he'd just realized the same thing. He pressed accept and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey."

"Hey." Athos was close enough to hear Aramis' voice through the speaker. He sounded tired, and Porthos flashed Athos a worried look. "Is Athos there?"

"Yes," Athos said, resting his head on Porthos' shoulder so Aramis could hear. He wasn't angry with Aramis anymore--well, a _little,_ for being so careless, but so much of his anger had come from his hurt and his jealousy. Now that he'd dealt with all that, he just wanted him home safely. 

"I'm sorry," Aramis said instantly. "I'm sorry for putting you both in a shitty situation, and I'm sorry for letting my anger run away with me, and I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry."

Porthos let out a breath, and Athos sighed. "Thank you," he said. The weight pressing down on his chest eased slightly--it still lay there, still heavy, but he could breathe again. "I'm sorry, too. I got carried away, and I shouldn't have said what I said, either."

Aramis let out a relieved breath. "Oh, good," he said, his voice slightly tight.

"Apologies accepted all around," Porthos sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "You're calling us instead of saying it in person, why?"

Aramis sounded nervous. "I wanted to say it before I asked the favor."

"What favor?"

Aramis laughed a little sheepishly. "I don't have my keys. Could you come let me in?"

Porthos took the phone away from his ear for a moment, pressing it to his chest and mouthing obscenities at the ceiling. He and Athos shared a despairing look, then Porthos sighed and lifted the phone back to his ear. "We'll be right down, Aramis," he said, and ended the call. 

"Will we ever be able to stay angry at him?" Athos murmured. "For more than, I don't know, half an hour?"

"No," Porthos said. Then he groaned and hauled himself manfully up off the bed, bending and picking up their discarded shirts. He tossed Athos his shirt and then pulled his own over his head. 

Athos sighed, looking down at the shirt in his hands and making no move to put it on. He was strangely reluctant to move from the bed, from the little bubble of peace he and Porthos had found. Then he shook himself and pulled his shirt back on. "Throw open the window and toss me the Febreeze, will you?" he sighed. "Aramis can smell sex from a mile away."

Porthos chuckled and did as Athos asked, and when that was done, Athos squinted into the mirror hanging over his dresser. His hair was less of a mess than he'd expected it to be, and he gave it a cursory swipe of his hand, flattening it down as he moved towards the door.

A thought struck him, then, and he stopped before he opened it, turning and catching Porthos' shoulders. Porthos blinked at him, and Athos bit his lip, debating on whether he should or shouldn't. Then he decided, _fuck it,_ and stretched up to kiss Porthos again.

"Just wanted one more," he murmured when they broke apart.

Porthos grinned at him, then dropped his forehead against Athos' with a long exhale. He was frowning, but it was more resigned than worried. "We just made things a hell of a lot more complicated, didn't we?" he sighed.

Athos felt one corner of his mouth tug up. "Isn't that what we do best?" he echoed. Porthos laughed, and Athos tugged open his door, feeling strangely better.

They'd managed to fit themselves back into their old, familiar skin by the time they got down the three flights of stairs to the front door, and Athos sighed and squared his shoulders as Porthos pushed it open.

Aramis sat on the bench outside, his arms hugging his chest against the cold. It was all he had, and Athos felt another stab of guilt. Aramis looked up at the sound of the door opening, and Athos saw tiny flakes of snow in his hair. The lines across his face relaxed into a smile when he saw them, but he still looked a little apprehensive. "Hi," he said.

"Hey," Porthos said, and now that Athos had been on the receiving end of it himself, he could hear even better the weary affection in Porthos' voice.

"Get in here before you freeze," Athos said, and Aramis grinned and scrambled to his feet. They'd barely closed the door behind him before Aramis turned to the two of them, his face tense and worried.

"I'm an idiot," Aramis blurted out, looking back and forth between them. "I'm saying it again, to your faces--I wasn't thinking, and I'm sorry, okay? It was petty, and stupid, and I know I promised to do better, and I'm sorry for ruining tonight when I know you both had other places you wanted to be--"

Porthos put his hands on Aramis' shoulders, and Aramis broke off, staring up at him. "There is nowhere else," Porthos said, "that we want to be."

Aramis stared at him. He blinked, once, his eyes wide and startled, and he looked between the two of him. "What about the girls?"

"Ninon and I are going to be friends, not fuck buddies," Athos said firmly, "and Alice is moving to Vancouver in December." 

Aramis stared at him blankly for a long, long second. Then a tiny, impossibly soft smile dawned on his face, and he nodded. "Oh," he said--just one syllable, a faint and overwhelmed _oh_ \--and he nodded again. "Well, then, I'm not as sorry as I was," he teased, one corner of his mouth curving up into a tentative grin.

Porthos cuffed him almost reflexively, and Aramis laughed, pushing lightly back at him. He looked up at Athos again, his eyes already back to their usual brightness, and Athos felt the oh-so-familiar flush of utter adoration rise in his chest. 

"Aramis, I really am sorry," he said, unable to go any further without saying it. "I was a controlling and overbearing jackass, and I should never have said any of the things I said to you."

Aramis smiled at him, relief plain on his face. "Forgiven," he said simply, and reached out for Athos.

Athos let Aramis draw him into a hug, pulling Porthos along, too. The three of them stood in the deserted foyer, arms tight around each other, and Athos breathed them both in.

"I'm sorry tonight was such a mess," he said quietly, feeling vaguely responsible for everything. He'd been the one who'd gotten them all invited, after all.

"Shut up, Athos," Aramis said fondly. "It's not exclusively your fault."

"We all could have handled tonight better," Porthos said fairly, and Athos broke off a weak chuckle, pressing his face into Porthos' chest.

Okay. They were okay.

"Okay," Porthos said, echoing his thoughts, and pulled back slightly. "It's two in the fucking morning and we've all been through more than enough shit tonight. Bed?"

"Bed," Aramis sighed, and pulled away. He still had an arm around Athos' shoulders, though, and just for a moment, he pulled Athos close to him--a tight press of shoulder to shoulder, a silent apology for what they'd done to each other that night.

Athos squeezed him back, just as hard. He didn't know what to say, but he knew Aramis understood. Then he reluctantly let his arm fall and led the way back to the elevator. 

Behind him, he heard Aramis say to Porthos, "Why are you both such a mess?"

"We took our frustration out on the weight room instead of you," Porthos lied without missing a beat, and Athos would have turned around to make a _nice_ gesture if that wouldn't have been such a dead giveaway. "Be pleased. We were extremely frustrated."

Aramis laughed, and Athos couldn't help but feel a warm rush at the sound. The same warm rush of feeling as before.

Aramis made him happy, too. Just as happy as Porthos made him.

Maybe there was a way to make this work.

\- 

Much later, he'd look back and realize that was the point where he'd jinxed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. we got there, folks. as always, you can poke and prod me on [le tumbleblag](http://tehriz.tumblr.com), and thank you all so much for your continued lovely support.
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Liz Phair's "Exile in Guyville," without which it would not have been possible.
> 
> EDIT: Y'AAAAAAALLLLLL THERE'S FANART. Tumblr user occamsphaser has drawn [UTTERLY BEAUTIFUL ART of Athos and Porthos at the end of the chapter](http://occamsphaser.tumblr.com/post/87452469750/can-u-feel-the-gay-tonight-blame-tehriz-who) and oh god i'm dying goodbye


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another morning after, and a small reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter eases the focus off the boys, just for a bit--there are other people in this story, after all, and I find I wanted to tell this particular tale. 
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains mentions of and examples of domestic abuse. It's not explicit, and there is no physical violence, but I want to be very clear that the obscurely controlling shit that's happening is most definitely emotional abuse. (It's not between the boys; it is Jacques.)

Contrary to absolutely everything he would have thought, Athos slept like the dead that night. He didn't lie awake replaying all the conversations he'd had with Ninon; he didn't stare at the ceiling thinking about Aramis and that fucking Red Guard; he didn't drive himself insane rehashing every single awful thing he yelled at Aramis during their fight.

His sheets smelled like Porthos when he lay down, and Athos fell asleep between one blink and the next.

He dreamed that he was walking across campus with Porthos and Aramis, taking the long, winding sidewalks around the academic buildings, across the long grassy expanse of the fields between the academic quad and the old dormitories like Baudelaire, then along the stretch of the lakeshore that ran behind Alexander and the sports building. They weren't going anywhere in particular, and he wouldn't recall what they were talking about when he tried to remember the dream later.

But when Athos woke, to the sound of a text chime just after ten, he actually felt like he could get out of bed. 

That hadn't happened in a really, really long time. 

He reached for his phone, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes, and it was to him and Porthos, from Aramis. [Going to Mass because my mother will kill me if she finds out how many weeks I've missed. Meet you for lunch after?]

Athos smiled, then realized he was smiling stupidly at his cell phone and shook himself. [naturally] he sent back, then snorted at the [no, we're eating without you] Porthos sent immediately after. 

[You're hilarious,] Aramis fired off, then his little icon went dark as he closed the app. He never, ever had his phone on in church.

Athos shook his head fondly and lay back down. He was glad Aramis was going to church; he was always a little less on edge when he went regularly. Sister Beth, the campus Catholic chaplain, was (to Aramis' delight) one of those radical progressive nuns the news liked to be scandalized by, and she made sure the priests that came in for Mass held similar viewpoints. Aramis loved them. He said they made him feel less guilty about still being Catholic, and Athos was glad Aramis hadn't had to lose something that meant so much to him.

Someone tapped at his door, and Athos rolled over, yawning. "Yeah?"

"It's me," Porthos' voice called back.

Athos smiled, dropping his head back into his pillow. "Come in."

Porthos stuck his head in, and he was still in his pajamas. "Morning." His smile was just this side of hesitant, like he wasn't quite sure what his reception would be.

He looked fucking _gorgeous._ How was that even possible? He'd probably just rolled out of bed and come over--he hadn't shaved, he still had his hair wrapped in the silk bandana he'd slept in, and there were pillow marks on one side of his face. Athos wanted to kiss every one of them. 

The thought scared him a little--a lot, if he were honest with himself--but he could handle it. He wasn't really sure _why_ he could handle it, if he thought about it too hard, especially not when thoughts like that had been so debilitating before.

Maybe it was because it was Porthos. Porthos made everything easier.

"You're not allowed to look this good this early on a Sunday," Athos informed him. "Good morning. Come here."

Porthos' smile became a full-fledged grin, and he let the door fall shut behind him. In half a second, he stripped off the hoodie he wore and lay down next to Athos. "What do you mean, 'this good?' I literally just got out of bed."

"Exactly." Athos slid over and fitted himself against Porthos' bare chest--Porthos never wore shirts under his hoodies this early, and Athos had never before appreciated it quite like he did right now. Porthos was on top of the blankets, Athos beneath, but he still had his whole torso pressed against Porthos' chest, and one of Porthos' arms had slipped under his shoulders to hold him close. It felt nice. Better than nice, if, again, he were honest with himself. "Sleep okay?"

Porthos half-shrugged, rolling his head to one side so he could see Athos. "Well enough. Did you?" The question seemed to matter, if only because Porthos was clearly trying to make it seem irrelevant, and Athos appreciated the care.

"No nightmares." Athos ran his hand absently over Porthos' ribs. "That hasn't happened in a while."

Porthos' smile spread slowly across his face, and he reached down to catch Athos' hand. "That's nice to hear. And that also tickles."

"Sorry." Athos felt a little curl of warmth in his chest as he tucked the information away-- _Porthos is ticklish; remember these places._ That was something he knew now. "I didn't freak out, if that's what you're trying to ask circles around."

Porthos let out a rueful chuckle, lacing his fingers through Athos'. "Caught me."

Safe in his bed, with Porthos surrounding him and everything golden with morning sunlight, it was easier for Athos to say what was in his head. "I feel so much calmer when I have you," he said, tracing his thumb over Porthos'. "I don't think I'm going to spiral about this. You can relax."

Pressed up against each other as they were, with his arm across Porthos' chest, Athos could _feel_ the tension bleed from Porthos' frame. Porthos shifted slightly, pulling Athos closer to him, and rested his chin on Athos' wild hair. "You have no idea," he sighed, "how relieved I am to hear you say that." He chuckled softly, smoothing his free hand down Athos' arm. "Honestly? I spent all night trying to talk myself down from coming back over here to make sure you were okay."

Athos smiled against Porthos' chest. His heart twisted in uncomfortable warmth--he wasn't used to feeling _valued_ like this. "You could have. I'm sure watching me sleep would have been enormously entertaining."

Porthos was silent a moment before answering. "Actually, yeah."

Athos twisted to frown up at him, propping his head up on his arm. "I was kidding."

Porthos shrugged, his smile this lopsided thing that made Athos' chest warm all over. "I like watching you sleep. It's the only way I can ever be sure you're actually _resting."_

Athos couldn't help but return the smile. "Thank you for your tender concern." Porthos grinned up at him, and Athos could only stand to look into his eyes for a few moments before he had to turn away. "You could have come over," he said again, softer this time. 

"I wanted to," Porthos confessed just as quietly, stroking through the ends of Athos' hair with his free hand. Their joined hands still lay on Porthos' chest, and Athos hoped they wouldn't have to let go for a while yet. "I wanted to wake up just like this. But...it felt a little too much like going behind his back, you know?"

Athos sighed and nodded. He didn't have to ask who Porthos meant. "And this isn't? Stealing a moment when he's in _church?"_

Porthos dropped his head back into the pillow, sighing. "Yes. No. Look, I don't know--I just really needed to make sure you were okay, and I didn't want to run into him in the hallway in case he asked me why." He flashed a pained look up at Athos. "I don't think I could actually lie to him. Not telling him is one thing, but if he ever asks, Athos..." Porthos sighed again. "I can't flat-out lie to Aramis, not straight to his face."

"No." Athos lay back down along Porthos' shoulder, trying to memorize the feeling of Porthos' body solid and warm against his. "Nor I." The very thought made him sick. As Porthos had said, not telling him was one thing; lying outright another entirely. 

"I mean, keeping a secret doesn't feel _great,"_ Porthos added, "but..." He trailed off, with a tense sound of frustration. "How the fuck do I say this?" he muttered, almost to himself. "This, between us--this isn't about him. It's about us. Y'know?"

Athos nodded. This was something the two of them needed, and needed to work out together. They needed to be sure of themselves before talking to him about it.

"This hasn't changed how we feel about him, then?" Athos asked quietly, staring at their joined hands because he couldn't, _couldn't_ ask Porthos that question and look him in the eye.

Porthos' arm tightened around him. "Not--" His voice was unsteady, and he broke off. Athos felt him swallow, then take a deep breath. "Not for me."

"Me, neither." Athos closed his eyes, feeling the pressure of all his confused emotions pushing out at his skull. Words struggled at the confines of his chest, too; so many things he wanted to say, but couldn't, for fear of how they'd be received. _Say it,_ he berated himself, _just say it, you coward--_ He opened his mouth, took a breath, and said, "Porthos, I--"

At the same moment, Porthos shifted under him and said, "Look, Athos--"

They both broke off, startled, and Porthos laughed a little awkwardly, stroking his hand over Athos' shoulder. "You first."

"No, it's all right." Athos turned his face even more into Porthos' bare shoulder, starving for the contact. "I don't even really know what I was going to say." It wasn't _exactly_ a lie. He'd just known he needed to say _something._ He was a grateful to Porthos for cutting him off; whatever had been about to come out of his mouth probably would have been a mess.

"Okay." Porthos shifted again, his hand moving restlessly on Athos' shoulder. "Then, I was going to say that this hasn't changed how I feel about Aramis, but I've...sort of...had a few revelations about how I feel about you?"

Oh.

Athos went very still. He wasn't sure if he was tensing for a blow or freezing like a deer in headlights. "Go on?" he prompted, when he realized Porthos was waiting for a response. He stared at their fingers twisted together like a lifeline.

Porthos' thumb brushed over Athos', and Porthos said quietly, "I don't want you to think you have to--reciprocate, or whatever, I know you're still working out your own shit and the last thing I want do is pressure you to--"

Athos closed his eyes. "Say it before I punch you in the stomach, Porthos."

His whole body shook with Porthos' laugh, and Porthos' hand flattened on Athos' shoulder, a warm, full point of contact. "See, shit like that's why I love you," Porthos said, and Athos could hear his smile in his voice.

Athos twisted up to smirk at Porthos, able to look him in the face again. "What, my utter lack of respect for a--" 

And then he realized what Porthos had--quite casually, and very deliberately--said.

For a long second, he heard nothing but blood pounding in his ears, and saw nothing but Porthos' tentative smile beneath him.

"Moment," Athos finished in a daze, staring down at him.

Porthos ran his fingers through Athos' hair, pushing it back as it fell in his face, and Athos could see the emotions chasing each other across Porthos' face. "I mean it, though," Porthos said, and Athos could tell he didn't _want_ to be saying what he was saying, even if he was earnest in saying it. "I don't want you to think you need to say it back, I just--needed to be honest."

And Athos could see it in his eyes--it was breaking Porthos' heart to tell Athos it was fine, if Athos didn't love him back, but he was saying it anyway.

He wished he could be as brave and as good as Porthos, some day.

Athos leaned down and kissed him. He needed to. Porthos arched up into him, his hand cradling Athos' head as he held him there, and Athos tried to pour his feelings into the way his lips moved against Porthos', the aching, painful tenderness he felt for him, friend and lover and lightning rod to ground all of Athos' churning storms. 

It was so different from what he felt for Aramis. Well--no, it _wasn't,_ that was the thing, no different in intensity, but...different in the ways he needed him. He needed Aramis' light, his laughter, and he needed Porthos' steadiness and understanding. And Porthos had his own light, and Aramis his own steadiness, and he felt so much more _complete_ with both of them.

Athos had no idea how his body could contain so many feelings for so many people. There was a time, not too long ago, when a fraction of these feelings for just one person had nearly ripped him apart.

His friends really had been good for him.

"Wow," Porthos said faintly, when they finally broke apart. His brown eyes were deep and soft, and Athos could hardly stand to look at him.

"There are some things I can't say," he said, fighting his own impulse to look away. Porthos deserved to have Athos look him in the eye right now. "It doesn't mean that...that isn't how I feel."

That was as close as he could get right now.

From the slow-dawning smile on Porthos' face, he understood well enough.

"Works for me," Porthos said, and stretched up to brush his lips softly against Athos', just once more. 

Athos released a shaky breath (had he been holding his breath?) and dropped his head down against Porthos' shoulder again. They'd need to get up and shower soon, he realized, and hated the thought. The more time he spent safe in Porthos' arms, the less he wanted to leave.

"I hadn't thought you'd be such a cuddler," Porthos said easily, breaking Athos' tension. "You never really seemed up for it before."

Athos smiled faintly against Porthos' skin. "I wanted to. I just didn't trust myself to. Worried I'd get too close. Or--" His throat closed on the words, and he couldn't bring himself to say them: _Or that you didn't want me there._ He knew that was wrong, now, and it'd only make Porthos upset. Porthos always seemed to take it personally when Athos gave voice to the persistent nagging in his head that said they didn't want him around.

Porthos stroked his back, quiet, but Athos could tell he was thinking something. He squeezed Porthos' hand where their fingers were still twined together, and Porthos sighed. "She really did a number on you, didn't she?" he asked.

Athos closed his eyes. Porthos was warm, and steady, and _real_ underneath him. "A lot of things have done a number on me," he said quietly.

Porthos kissed his hair again, and Athos breathed in and out with the rise and fall of Porthos' chest. 

"We should shower," Athos said finally, his eyes still closed. "Aramis will be back soon."

"Yeah," Porthos said. 

Slowly, reluctantly, Athos pushed himself upright, and Porthos' arm fell from his shoulders. They still held hands, and Athos stared at their joined fingers for a moment. Unlacing them was going to be obscurely painful.

He lifted their hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to Porthos' knuckles. 

Porthos laughed softly, and gently unwrapped his fingers from Athos'. Only it didn't have time to hurt, because he reached up and traced them across Athos' face instead, brushing through the messy stubble of his beard. "That's getting rough again," he pointed out. "Do you always need to shave this much?"

"Do not mention it in front of Aramis," Athos ordered him, climbing off the bed and going to his towel rack. "If he offers to shave me again, I'm not going to be held responsible for my actions."

Porthos laughed again, only much louder this time, and the look he shot Athos as he got up was unbelievably affectionate. "See, I'd love it if I had him touching me like that."

"See, you think that," Athos said, giving him a narrow look, "and then it happens and it's hell. Pure, unadulterated hell."

Bickering casually about similar idiotic things, they went to shower. 

\- - -

Aramis looked happier than he had in weeks when he met them in the dining hall. "Morning," he said cheerfully.

Athos nudged a chair out with his foot for Aramis, who shot him a warm look as he sat down with his plate. "Good service?" Athos asked, taking his own bagel and spreading cream cheese on one half.

Aramis nodded. "It was just nice to be back. And the priest gave an excellent sermon on charity. I might even be able to face Jacques with equanimity."

Porthos snorted as he scraped up the last of his hash browns. "If he's even still here."

Athos frowned at him, and Aramis cocked an eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

Porthos gave them both a strange look, then suddenly his eyes went wide. He dropped his fork, leaning back in his chair, and ran a hand over his beard. "Oh, shit, that's right, you both weren't there."

"What?" they asked in unison.

Porthos glanced around to make sure none of their friends were in the dining hall, then leaned in and dropped his voice. "Constance and Jacques had a huge fuckin' fight at the party last night."

Aramis' jaw dropped. "You're shitting me. Did they break up?" 

"What were they fighting about?" Athos demanded. God, he _hoped_ they'd broken up, he couldn't stand Constance being unhappy with that pathetic excuse for a human--

"Did she hit him?" Aramis asked, his face gleeful.

Porthos held up his hands to forestall any more questions. "One at a time, please? Or you could both shut up and let me tell the story?"

"Well, get on with it!" Aramis exclaimed, flicking a blueberry off his plate at Porthos. 

Aramis had unerring aim, and Porthos barely ducked in time for the fruit projectile to miss his cheek. He gave Aramis a warning look, then leaned in again. "I mean, I can't give you the play-by-play of what started it, because, I've gotta be honest, Alice and I were talking, but basically she wasn't paying enough attention to him, so he threw a shit fit like the two year-old he is."

Athos made an eloquent noise of disgust, and Aramis rolled his eyes.

Porthos grimaced. "I know. They went out in the hall and I heard him complaining about how she spends all her time with her friends while he's here. And he says that's incredibly selfish of her because he never gets to see her, blah blah blah."

Aramis stabbed viciously at his fruit salad. "Maybe if he was enough of a decent human for her friends to actually like, we'd want to spent time with them both."

Porthos flashed him a grin. "I _so_ almost said that."

Aramis grinned back. "That's why you're my favorite. So, what then, did they head home?"

Porthos rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Well, no, first Constance shot back that she's allowed to have a life, that she wants him to know her friends because we're important to her, and he came down this weekend knowing full well she had shit to do--"

Athos nodded. "Fair, reasonable."

"--And that maybe he could invite _her_ up for a change if he wanted to get shitty about how little time they spend together--"

"That's right," Aramis chimed in, "because he's never once invited her up to his place, has he?"

"No, he has not," Porthos said, pointing his fork at Aramis. "And then he said it's because his MBA is too important for distractions."

Aramis whistled. "Motherfucker."

Athos could only nod his agreement. He was too busy seeing red to formulate a response.

"To which," Porthos continued, "our darling Constance asked if he meant that _her_ work wasn't as important. The jackass tried to backpedal, and she wasn't having it--she shouted at him for a solid minute about how she's sick of supporting him when he doesn't do shit for her, and how about he not devalue her projects when she's the only one in this couple making money right now--"

"Good for her," Athos her, viciously enjoying the scenario in his imagination.

"This was all in the hallway?" Aramis asked, looking amazed. "How did we miss that? The music wasn't _that_ loud."

"Constance was doing her deadly whisper-shout thing," Porthos said, waving his hand. "I could only hear because I was right inside. You know she hates making a scene. But then when she finished, Jacques brought up that moving-to-Manhattan shit again, and how _she_ isn't supporting _his_ future because she doesn't want to live in New York--" Porthos visibly broke off, his irritation rising too high to speak, and shook his head. "They went home after that, and that was the last we heard."

"I am sorry I missed that," Aramis laughed. "It would have been a show."

"I wonder how it ended," Athos said, looking toward the end of the dining hall that led up to the dormitory. He wondered if Constance had eaten early.

Porthos shrugged. "I have no idea. I wanted to text her--" And his face went dark, suddenly, a storm cloud passing over, but then it was gone almost as quickly. Athos didn't have time to ask before Porthos went on. "But I didn't. I thought it might make the fight worse."

Aramis frowned at him. "What, do you think he reads her texts?"

Athos gave him a look. "Of course he reads her texts." 

They both looked sharply at him. He wondered for a moment how it wasn't obvious, to both of them, then he realized. They'd both only ever been in happy, healthy relationships. (At least, that he knew of.) 

He sighed and set down his fork. "Have either of you ever been in a relationship with someone who guards every single second of your time?"

They shared a nervous glance, then shook their heads.

Athos lifted his eyebrows briefly, then picked up his fork again. "He reads her texts," he said shortly. "Anne read mine. Jacques reads hers."

Aramis stared at him, like Athos was one of those optical illusions you could see as a different picture, if you only looked long enough. "Does Constance know he reads her texts?" he asked slowly.

Athos shrugged. "When you're on the receiving end of that sort of thing, you tend not to see it for what it is." He very carefully avoided making eye contact with Porthos. He had a feeling he didn't want to see the anger he knew would be there. He shook his head and took a bite of his pasta. "He's jealous and he's scared of losing her. So he...overcorrects."

They sat in silence for a long moment. 

Then Aramis pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

"Aramis," Porthos said sharply. 

"I'm going to text her," Aramis said, tapping in a text message. 

_"Aramis--"_

"What, I'm _worried,"_ Aramis said, frowning down at his phone. "I swear, it'll be perfectly innocuous--"

"You do not know _how_ to send a perfectly innocuous text," Porthos said, reaching across and grabbing at Aramis' phone. "Don't set him off, it'll be worse for her, believe me--"

Aramis swerved away from him, still tapping out the message. "How does 'just got out of church, have you eaten lunch?' sound for innocuous? I mention _church,_ Porthos."

"Athos," Porthos said in appeal, since Aramis was out of arms' reach for him, but Athos wasn't sure.

"I'm a little worried, too," he said slowly. "Let's just see if she answers."

The last fight he'd had with Anne, after the last fight they'd had in public--they screamed at each other, went home, screamed some more, had angry sex and fell asleep--she hadn't let him out of her sight for a week. She'd known everywhere he'd gone, everyone he'd spoken to, everyone he'd texted. She'd been very good at distracting him, but looking back now, Athos could see she hadn't _let_ him talk to anyone else.

He didn't want Constance in the same situation. The thought made his stomach churn.

Athos set his fork down again, feeling sick and guilty. How long had he been too caught up in his own shit to see? "I should really talk to her," he said.

"Not your responsibility to make her realize he's an asshole," Aramis said, still frowning at his phone.

Athos shook his head. "I'm not saying he's an asshole, I'm saying he's abusive."

Aramis looked up from his phone, his eyes very wide. Athos finally dared a glance at Porthos, and he found Porthos staring at him, with the same fixed kind of look Athos had prayed he wouldn't be. 

He scrambled to say something, anything, that would make them think he was just putting pieces together, not--not seeing a reflection of himself. "Well, think about it--he reads her texts, he doesn't want her spending time with her friends, he gets upset when other people touch her--"

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a long, long look.

"Did you send the text?" Porthos asked Aramis.

Aramis shook his head.

Porthos glanced at Athos once more, then leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, do it."

"If she doesn't answer," Athos began.

"If she doesn't answer," Aramis said, "we're going upstairs to get her." And he picked up his phone again. "I'm sick of treating that piece of subhuman garbage like he's worthy of our consideration." He tapped a few quick commands, then set his phone down.

They all stared at the phone, as if it would suddenly light up and provide a solution.

It didn't, and Aramis rested his elbows on the table, staring intently at it. 

Then, suddenly, he groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "We're awful friends," he said, with such absolute conviction that it made Athos' stomach hurt. "We're shit. How long have we let this happen? How long have we enabled this toxic fucking relationship?"

The question drummed at Athos' temples, beating in and out of his ears. He reached up and pressed the heels of his hands to the sides of his head, pushing hard until the tension eased.

 _I'm just trying to look after you,_ Anne had always said. _You need me, remember? Could you really do this on your own?_ And then what Porthos had said about Jacques-- _you aren't paying attention to me, I need you to support me, your friends don't like me--_

Just different sides of the same fucking coin. The same isolating, degrading shit.

Aramis' phone buzzed, and his head snapped up. He lunged for it, snatching it up and swiping at it, and frowned when he saw the message. _"Not hungry,"_ he read, his face going dark. "When was the last time she sent you a two-word text message with no punctuation?"

"Approximately never," Athos said. A grey, buzzing haze of anxiety settled on his brain.

Porthos stood up, so suddenly he nearly knocked over his chair, and Athos and Aramis jumped. They barely got a look at Porthos' face--and it was _scary_ \--before he turned and headed straight for the door that led to their dormitory.

Athos and Aramis exchanged frightened looks and hurried after him. Neither of them had _ever_ seen that look on Porthos. It spoke eloquently of violence, a thunderclap on a stormy horizon. Athos wasn't quite sure what had triggered it, but it didn't matter--the storm cloud had settled, and it was about to pour.

"Darling, what are you planning?" Aramis asked nervously as they caught up to him.

"We're gonna check on her," Porthos said. His voice was so terrifyingly _calm_ that a chill ran down Athos' spine.

Athos and Aramis exchanged another look, neither of them quite sure what to say as they waited for the elevator. The length of the ride up to the third floor did not seem long enough to talk Porthos out of whatever bodily harm he was contemplating doing to Jacques. 

More than that, though, Athos wasn't really sure he _wanted_ to talk Porthos out of it. He wondered how his life might have been different if someone had paid closer attention to him and Anne together--if his parents had given a damn and noticed one of a thousand warning signs. If Thomas had worried about him a little more instead of idolizing him.

The third floor seemed eerily quiet for a Sunday morning, and Porthos headed for Constance's door with unerring accuracy. 

Aramis reached out for Porthos' shoulder as they approached Constance's brightly-decorated door. "I don't suppose you'd let me handle this?"

"No," Porthos said, and reached up and knocked sharply. "Constance?" he called. "It's us. Can we talk to you?"

Athos stared fixedly at the _Things to Do In Boston_ sign tacked up on the sheet of red butcher paper. He wasn't scared of confrontation, usually, not in the slightest--he'd been ready to take a punch from that Red Guard the night before, and could have easily thrown one--but for some reason, he felt like he wanted to run and hide. He did _not_ have a good feeling about this.

A moment later, the door opened a few inches. Jacques glowered out at him. "We're in the middle of a conversation," Jacques said without any kind of greeting. "As you might have guessed when you _texted._ You want to come back later, maybe?" Without waiting for an answer, he started to close the door.

Porthos' hand slammed down on the wood of the door, holding it firmly open, and everyone--Athos, Aramis, and Jacques--jumped about six inches into the air. "No," Porthos said, his voice still very quiet and very calm. "We'd really like to talk to her now."

"She doesn't want company," Jacques said shortly, but he'd gone a shade or two paler under his godawful mustache.

"I don't give a fuck what _you_ think she wants," Porthos said, and his inhuman quiet didn't crack once as his eyes bored into Jacques. "I didn't like the way you talked to her last night at the party, I didn't like the way you texted Aramis back from her phone, and I _really_ don't like the way you're not letting us see her right now. So you can get the fuck out of our way, or you can regret it."

Constance's voice came drifting out from behind Jacques, quieter and more subdued than Athos had ever heard it. "They can come in, Jacques."

Jacques glared at Porthos for a long moment, then grudgingly stepped back. Porthos shoved the door open and strode past him, and Athos and Aramis followed. 

Constance sat on her bed, legs drawn up and a pillow hugged to her chest. Her face was pale, and when he saw how she curled in on herself, looking worried and sad, Athos felt a chilling jolt of self-recognition.

Porthos moved right past Jacques like he didn't even exist, dropping down to kneel beside the bed. "Hey," he said, his voice just as soft, but gentler. "Sorry to barge in, but we were a little worried."

"It's fine," Constance sighed, her fingers playing nervously at the fringe on the end of her pillow. "It's nice of you to worry."

"Are you okay?" Athos asked her directly, his voice returning at last. He could _feel_ Jacques' angry presence in the air, and somehow it was that which jolted him back into speech. He wasn't able to do this for himself, but he could try to do it for her.

Constance looked up at him, and there was a wide-eyed, worried vulnerability on her face. "Of course," she said, but the look on her face told him more, and she looked away almost immediately after she said it. 

Aramis sat on the far end of her bed, far enough away that he wasn't touching her at all, giving her plenty of space, and she smiled hesitantly at him. He smiled back, that warm, gentle grin of his that never failed to lift everyone's spirit, and Constance's smile grew. Aramis nodded to her, then turned and looked up at Jacques. "You can give us a moment, can't you, Jacques?"

Jacques opened his mouth to object. Porthos looked over his shoulder, fixing him with a cold, harsh stare, and Jacques closed his mouth. "I'm--going to take my bag down to the car," he said weakly, and nearly stumbled over his backpack as he scooped it up and fled.

"You didn't have to scare him," Constance said reproachfully, but they all noticed the way her body unkinked itself when he was gone. 

"Yeah," Porthos said, turning back to her, "we kinda did. Was I right? Did he text us back from your phone?"

Constance chewed her lip, then nodded. "Well, yes, but--he was closer, and we were in the middle of something. I swear, I'm fine."

"We're not saying you aren't," Aramis said, sliding a little closer to her. She unfolded her body a tiny bit more, letting them in, and Athos sat down on Aramis' other side. "But--if you weren't, you know you could tell us, right?"

"I don't want you to beat up my boyfriend," Constance said, rolling her eyes.

"We know," Porthos assured her. "We won't do anything you don't want us to do. But if you need backup, for anything, you know we're here."

Constance nodded again. Her hands moved back and forth on the pillow she held, tracing the quilted patterns on the sham. "It was just a little fight," she told them, her voice quiet, almost ashamed. 

Athos' chest ached at her tone. He knew it very well. He'd always used it to convince himself of the same thing.

"That's always how it starts," he said, just as quietly, and they all looked at him. "It's just a little fight. It's just one text." He looked up at Constance, not sure when he'd started staring at his hands, to find her looking at him with wide, luminous eyes. 

"It may only just be a little fight for you," he said, and oh, how he wanted to believe it. He didn't want the person Constance loved to be cruel and awful. "I really hope it is, because it wasn't for me."

Aramis' hand covered his where it lay on the bedsheet, and Athos couldn't look at him or Porthos right now--he didn't want to see their pity, their worry. He kept his eyes on Constance.

"Oh, Athos," Constance said, her voice cracking slightly. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry."

He shrugged one shoulder. "It's in the past now. I just--would have liked someone to come bang on my door and break up one of those first...little fights." He swallowed, feeling Aramis' hand heavy and warm on top of his. "If you ever need one of us to be that person, we'll be there."

She blinked at him, her eyelashes thick with unshed tears, and she nodded finally, reaching up to wipe at her damp eyes. "I appreciate it," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "But, really--it's okay, we just needed to have a good long talk."

"Okay," Porthos said, reaching up and squeezing her hand. "We just wanted you to know."

Constance smiled tremulously at him. "I've given enough seminars to hapless first years to know you were doing it out of concern. I'm not upset. Thank you."

An awkward cough sounded outside the doorway, and they all turned to see Jacques standing in the hall. "Can I say goodbye to my girlfriend now?" he asked, his voice an uncomfortable mix of brusqueness and fear.

"Sure," Porthos said, his voice still silky smooth. "We'll even walk you down to your car with her."

They took the stairs, mostly because those let out right into the parking lot, but also because that meant the five of them wouldn't have to stand awkwardly in an elevator while Athos, Porthos, and Aramis contemplated gruesome murder. Constance deserved someone so much better than Jacques.

He drove a fucking Lexus, Athos noticed when they got down to the parking lot and saw the car parked in the circle. Of course he did. 

Athos stood between Porthos and Aramis, the three of them radiating a silent exchange of disgust and reassurance as they watched Constance hug Jacques goodbye. The two of them exchanged a few words Athos couldn't hear, but Jacques' face was serious as he nodded and turned to the car.

Porthos took a single step forward that brought him into Jacques' path, and the other man startled, looking up at him.

Porthos smiled blandly, reaching out and pulling open the driver's side door for him. 

"Thanks," Jacques said nervously, and he sidled awkwardly around Porthos and into the seat.

"Not a problem," Porthos said, then leaned down so his face was on a level with Jacques. "If you ever read her text messages again, _that_ will be a problem." 

Athos and Aramis exchanged a faint smile.

"Right," Jacques said, twitching nervously away. Porthos smiled a truly unsettling smile and slammed the door shut.

Aramis gave a mocking little wave as Jacques peeled out of the driveway and sped away down the hill.

"You were very vehement, Porthos," Constance said as they turned to walk slowly back to the dormitory.

"Flea had a boyfriend once," Porthos said shortly, jamming his hands in his pockets. 

Athos and Aramis looked sharply up at him. Porthos almost never talked about his childhood friends. They'd heard of Flea--heard her voice on the phone a few times--but never any stories.

"Did he hurt her?" Constance asked. She walked very close to Porthos, closer than she usually did. 

"Yeah," Porthos said. He didn't say anything more, and Athos had the feeling that was the end of it. 

Porthos swiped his ID and opened the door for them, holding it until they were all inside. He always did that--he'd be the last one in, watching to make sure everyone else was in and safe. He'd done it since the day Athos met him--and before, Athos realized for the first time. Porthos had been a protector long before they met.

If only Athos had met him back then.

Impulsively, he wrapped an arm around Porthos' waist as they walked through the foyer. Porthos started slightly, looking down at him, then smiled and draped an arm over his shoulders.

Aramis glanced over his shoulder and saw them half-hugging. He blinked, his eyebrows climbing up slightly.

Athos tensed in Porthos' arm, and for a half a wild second, he was scared shitless of what Aramis was seeing. Did he see how close Athos and Porthos had become? How tightly they held on? Athos wasn't ready to tell him yet, not yet--

And then Aramis smiled at them, his eyes softening, and he turned to Constance. "Are you hungry now?" he asked her.

Constance chuckled, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I could eat," she admitted.

Aramis bent his arm and held it out for her, like an old-fashioned gentleman. "Madame, may I escort you to the dining hall?"

She laughed, for real this time, and slipped her arm into his. "You may, good sir."

Athos' spirits lifted as he and Porthos followed Aramis and Constance into the dining hall. That kindness, those little sweet gestures--they were everything he loved about Aramis. The way he could lift someone out of their darkest moments with a smile, and a joke, and just...being there.

"Just how he is," Porthos said quietly to him, and Athos could hear the smile in his voice.

Constance filled up a plate, and Aramis cajoled her into filling it up a little bit more ("no, sorry, you skipped breakfast; my mother and Latina mothers everywhere demand you put an extra scoop of mac and cheese on there--don't give me that look, I'm just the messenger"). Athos grabbed an apple and a Coke while Porthos shrugged and filled up another plate, never passing up a chance for food.

It felt good, Athos decided, as the four of them walked out of the kitchen area and into the dining room to find a table. It felt _normal._

Well, almost normal, he amended when he spotted d'Artagnan at a table by himself, eating a sandwich and frowning at a book. The new kind of normal.

He leaned in towards Constance and nodded in d'Artagnan's direction. "I see a table."

Constance looked around. Athos, still watching her face, could pinpoint the exact moment she saw d'Artagnan--at least, he hoped that was the moment, because if her face turned that pink and her eyes that starry for no reason, he'd have a whole other load of concerns.

"Yeah," she said, smiling at him. "Me, too."

As she started across the dining hall, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis exchanged a significant look. 

"He's an overgrown puppy dog," Athos said in a critical undertone as they followed her.

"She could still do worse," Porthos said fairly. 

"She's still technically with the asshole," Athos reminded him.

Aramis sighed lustily. "The heart wants what it wants."

D'Artagnan glanced up and saw them all approaching, and they broke off their whispered conversation to smile at him when his face brightened.

"Hey," he said, hastily shoving his book and folders aside. "Join me? I spent all morning in the sports center and I'm _still_ blocked on this stupid paper. I thought a snack would clear my head."

"They usually do, for you boys," Constance said, grinning as she sat down next to him. "I'd think you're always trying to clear your head, from how much junk I see you all eating." She gave Porthos a significant look, and her gaze shifted pointedly to his plate of french fries and chili.

Porthos caught her look and flashed one right back. "It takes a lot of food to keep this much going," he said, motioning to himself.

Athos arched an eyebrow at him over his apple. "If I gave you a dollar for every empty calorie on that plate, _I_ would be broke."

Porthos threw a french fry at him. Aramis caught it out of the air and ate it.

Constance threw back her head and laughed, and the three of them smiled at each other. 

_Well done,_ Aramis mouthed, winking at him.

Athos nodded, and took another bite of his apple to hide his blush. 

D'Artagnan was looking between the four of them, his eyes sharp and calculating, and Athos knew he had to notice Jacques' absence--the man had meant to stay all weekend, after all, and d'Artagnan had witnessed the fight. He caught Athos' eye, and very casually lifted a single eyebrow, nodding his head slightly towards the empty seat on Constance's other side.

Athos just as casually shook his head--then blinked once at d'Artagnan, letting his face settle into its most quelling and censorious look. They'd just gotten Constance's mind off it, and Athos did _not_ want to drag her back there.

D'Artagnan flashed Athos the barest of incredulous _do you think I'm an idiot?_ looks, then leaned back in his chair. "So I was thinking we should go to the Louvre on Friday," he said, smiling around at them. 

"You finally want to go to karaoke night?" Constance laughed, grinning broadly at him. 

The Louvre was the student-run pub in the basement of the campus center, and every Friday, it became the absolute hub of all activity. Friday was the student body's traditional karaoke night, a relic of Dumas' University's turbulent ride through the late 1990s. All schools had one totally absurd tradition, Athos supposed; at least theirs was vaguely community-like. 

"Gonna show off your pipes, kiddo?" Aramis prompted d'Artagnan, his smile huge and teasing.

"I just want to watch," d'Artagnan protested, but he was smiling too widely for anyone to take him too seriously. "Do you guys go a lot?"

Porthos tilted his chair back on two legs, sagely stroking his beard. "We've been known to be regulars."

"Not so far this year, though," Aramis said thoughtfully. "I think it's time for a comeback."

"If you behave yourself, young one," Constance said to d'Artagnan, mock-severely, "we'll tell you about the time Stoned Athos sang Green Day."

"I love Stoned Athos," Aramis sighed dreamily.

"Oh, God in Heaven," Athos groaned, and took a very, _very_ long drink of his Coke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if not a lot happened ot3-wise here, but I personally needed a bit of a breather and I thought Constance's story needed some attention. We'll spend some time with d'Artagnan next chapter, and then it's Halloween, where Shit Goes Down.
> 
> on the note of karaoke night, expect the first volume of the playlist for this fic to go up on [my tumblr](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) sometime this week. As always, you can find me there.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pub night and another party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! It will not be as long for the next chapter, I promise. Y'all are the sweetest and most patient fans ever, and I love you lots. 
> 
> So, a lot goes down here, and just to explain a few decisions--I decided that with everything that Aramis being Spanish in 1600s France would entail, with borders and identities and politics, that the closest allegory for a modern USA setting would be Aramis being Mexican, so, yeah. Queen Anne is Anna here, to a) avoid confusion with Anne-Milady, and b) reflect her birth name, which wouldn't have been changed here.
> 
> Serious warnings in this chapter for prescription drug abuse, mentions of past addiction issues, and mentions of a canonical character death (Athos' brother Thomas).

For the next six days, Athos endured a near-constant barrage of guesses from d'Artagnan as to which song he'd sung the one time they'd turned up stoned to the pub's karaoke night.

"'Time of Your Life'?" he asked at lunch on Monday over sandwiches.

"No," Athos replied, giving Constance a hard look. She'd _had_ to bring it up.

"Good guess," Porthos said consolingly, and patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder.

That afternoon, after fencing practice, d'Artagnan came up to him with a confident smile on his face. "'Longview'," d'Artagnan said. "It had to have been."

"Good guess as to why I'd be so embarrassed about it," Athos replied, hanging up his fencing mask, "but no."

("Just tell him," Ninon told him Tuesday lunch, after she'd recovered from her fit of laughter. Athos hadn't dignified that with any sort of response.)

After dinner on Tuesday, it was "When I Come Around," and Athos silently shook his head.

"Getting warmer, though," Aramis said, hiding his grin behind a cookie.

"In date, or in subject matter?" d'Artagnan asked eagerly.

"No hints," Athos said, giving Aramis a censorious glare. Aramis held up his hands in surrender.

As the week went on, d'Artagnan's guesses got more and more desperate and more and more obscure. The boy's knowledge of the deeper cuts of their discography was actually impressive, Athos thought, as d'Artagnan fired off guess after guess at him at dinner Thursday night after fencing.

"Are you reading those off Wikipedia?" Aramis asked critically, peering over the edge of the table to see if d'Artagnan had a phone in his hand.

D'Artagnan flashed him the finger instead. "Everyone had a punk phase." 

"I still can't believe there aren't any pictures left from yours," Porthos said to Athos, then, and the warm glint in his eyes took the edge off the teasing.

Athos deliberately looked away before he started blushing. He didn't need that kind of dead giveaway in front of _everyone._ "I've always been camera-shy. Also, when you consider how I dress now, I'm not sure mine ever really _stopped."_

"True," Aramis said, eyeing Athos' worn Ramones t-shirt with a resigned sort of look. "You know I'd never want to change you, Athos, but if you just took an extra half-second in the mornings--"

"No, Aramis," he said automatically, bending over his plate. "Any more guesses, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan rested his chin in his hands and gave Athos a narrow-eyed stare. Athos stared right back, his face carefully blank. D'Artagnan just _looked_ at him, looked and looked until Athos started to feel vaguely uncomfortable. 

"'Basket Case'," d'Artagnan said finally.

Athos lifted his glass to him. "Your best guess so far--but no."

"God _damn_ it!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, shoving his plate away in disgust. 

\- - -

Friday night, they all walked down from the dormitory together. It felt like a slightly less stressful version of the night they'd gone to the party: they'd all dressed slightly nicer than usual, and Aramis had given him beseeching looks until Athos relented and shrugged on his sleek fencing zip-up over one of his less-ragged t-shirts. 

Porthos had watched the entire back and forth with a small smile playing over his lips, offering only a wink in Athos' direction at the end of it. Athos was forced to hide his pink cheeks in changing his shirt--he'd been teetering on the edge of an embarrassed flush since Porthos walked in the door; it was only natural a wink would put him over into blushing-maiden territory. Porthos (probably deliberately) wore one of his older fencing t-shirts, and he'd put on quite a bit of muscle since their first year. It clung to his chest in an _incredibly_ distracting way, and Athos was resisting the temptation to touch incredibly poorly. 

Aramis had hip-checked Porthos flirtatiously when he'd joined them in Athos' room, putting an appreciative hand on Porthos' chest, and Athos really regretted forcing himself not to be so tactile with them before. If he'd been as casually handsy as Aramis since the day they'd met, he'd be free to touch in all the ways he wanted to now, blithely concealed under platonic guises.

Aramis, to Athos' relief, hadn't dressed like he was out to break hearts--in fact, he was a little understated, for him. The three of them matched, in their fencing jackets, and Aramis only wore a slim, fitted black v-neck under his. It looked good--better than good, in the effortless way Aramis had of looking like sex on a stick--but there was something a little different about his face. It looked sharper in some places, softer in others, the shape subtly changed, and it wasn't until they stood outside on the steps, waiting for Constance and d'Artagnan, that Athos realized. The unfamiliar lighting of the streetlamp did the trick.

His soft breath must have been audible, because Aramis half-turned, caught Athos looking at him, and arched an inquiring brow. 

Athos shoved his hands awkwardly into his pockets. "Nothing," he said, flashing Aramis a tentative half-smile. "Your makeup looks good."

That had to have been what he'd done. When he was little enough to still trail after her like a lapdog, Athos had watched his mother put on layer after layer of light and dark powder, all angles and shades and careful highlights, and Anne had done it in front of him, once or twice--it wasn't hard to see it on Aramis, now that he knew what he was looking for. Only Aramis had done different things than the both of them. His cheekbones seemed even stronger than usual, but he'd softened his brow, his nose, and the combined effect made him look slightly androgynous in the half-light. Athos was sure it would be even more pronounced in the pub's dim light.

It was a good look on him. 

Aramis blinked at him. Then one of his slower, shyer smiles spread over his face, and he tucked his wayward dark curls behind his ear, uncharacteristically bashful. "I thought I'd try it," he said, his voice a little too self-deprecating for Athos to be entirely comfortable with, too ready to be dismissive of something he'd clearly taken a lot of time with.

"I think it suits you," Porthos said from where he leaned against the wall of the building. It was all he had to say to make Aramis' awkward smile light up into something more genuine, more comfortable, and Porthos grinned at him. 

"Thanks," Aramis said, beaming, then ruined the comfortable moment by cursing and hugging himself against a full-body shiver. _"Fuck,_ it's cold already."

"No, it's not," Porthos and Athos said automatically. This winter would be the third they'd ridden out together, and they'd gotten used to Aramis' continual complaining once the temperature dropped below a regular sixty-five. Athos had to concede fall was starting to give way to winter--there had definitely been snow in the air the night of the party, though it hadn't stuck--and there was a bite to the chill in the air now, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it was going to be. 

It had always been a point of contention between the three of them. Athos and Porthos, as natives of Boston and New York, respectively, were used to weathering cold. Athos' family had lived in New England since the Revolutionary War, and Porthos had vague ideas about his mother being from somewhere in Michigan. Cold resistance was in their blood. Aramis, on the other hand, was born and raised in Los Angeles, and continually reminded them (in English and/or Spanish, depending on how cold it was and how angry he was about it), "I am Mexican, and I hate this." Athos and Porthos still reminisced about the bilingual storm of cursing he'd let off when they woke up their first year to find snow in early October. 

Athos wished he'd thought to tape it. It was possibly the first moment he'd realized he was head-over-heels lost for him.

Aramis was grumbling under his breath now, his hands tucked under his arms and hunching his shoulders against the chill. Porthos sighed and unzipped his jacket, holding one half open. "Come here and stop whining."

Aramis flipped him off, but nevertheless rushed into the proffered warmth. He cuddled up to Porthos' side, and Porthos wrapped his arm and his jacket around Aramis as best he could. 

Athos rolled his eyes expressively, and pressed up against Aramis' side to keep the wind off them. Porthos gave him an amused look over Aramis' head, and Athos shook his head in mock despair. Inwardly, though, he was glad, _so_ glad that things were back to normal between them. They'd had the week to fall back into their usual habits, to remember how it felt just to be friends without anything hanging over them. 

Athos was surprised at how easy it was to go about his daily business carrying around the knowledge of Porthos' touch, his kiss. He'd thought it would be harder, that he'd always feel the jumpy threat of discovery, but...he didn't. It almost felt normal, too. Maybe that could _be_ normal, he thought in moments when he let himself daydream, just a little and not for very long. 

Surely, in some alternate parallel universe, there was a version of "normal" with much more kissing and touching.

"You're a walking space heater, Porthos," Aramis sighed, snuggling up against him, and it was Porthos' turn to roll his eyes.

"He always has been," Athos agreed. "Remember first year."

Aramis laughed, and Porthos had to chuckle. That first winter, the power had gone out in the dorm during a snowstorm, and their miniscule triple had gotten very, very cold. Aramis had made a blanket fort on the bottom bunk and noisily complained about freezing until Athos had climbed in with him. Even then, they'd both still been shivering until Porthos had scrambled in, too. He was bigger than both of them and much, much warmer, and Athos and Aramis had shamelessly huddled up against him.

It was the first time they'd all fallen asleep together--and the first time since Athos had broken up with Anne that he'd slept through a night.

He hadn't thought about that night in years.

The front door opened, and they heard d'Artagnan's familiar snort. "Are we interrupting?"

"Fuck off, it's cold," Aramis said without missing a beat, lifting his head from Porthos' shoulder.

"Oh, your makeup looks nice, Aramis," Constance said to him, zipping up her coat as she stepped out behind d'Artagnan. "Did you get the good brushes I told you about?"

 _"Yes,_ and they cost literally everything I made at the music library last week," Aramis griped, as Porthos and Athos begrudgingly released him to the cold and they all headed down the steps. "The amount of money they think they can charge for makeup just blows my mind--"

"Welcome to life," Constance told him, and d'Artagnan laughed. He was sticking protectively close to Constance, Athos realized, and he gave the boy a look when Constance turned to talk to Aramis.

D'Artagnan held up his hand, middle fingers curled and thumb and pinky sticking out to mime a phone, then mouthed _Jacques._

Athos heard Porthos snort with disdain behind him, and badly cover it with a cough when Constance turned to look at him.

She gave Porthos a narrow look, then turned to d'Artagnan and fixed him with such a poisonous glare that the boy literally cowered. "They asked," he said pitifully. Constance rolled her eyes, tugging her coat closer around herself and shaking her head with disgust.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Aramis asked, sidling up to her.

"No," Constance said decisively.

They got about twenty steps down the sidewalk before she sighed and leaned into him. "Yes. It's just so frustrating. Every time we talk, these days, it turns into another fight."

"What about this time?" Athos asked, trying to keep his voice even and free of judgment. Judging from Aramis' _not helping_ look, he didn't exactly succeed. 

Constance pushed her hands into her coat pockets. "New York again."

"Stop me if this is out of line," Porthos said, and Athos winced at the impending disaster implied in his words, "but if all you two do is fight these days, remind me why you don't just dump the motherfucker?"

 _"Porthos,"_ Aramis and Athos hissed in unison, mortified--

But Constance laughed, her breath a cloud before her face, and Athos nearly cricked his neck turning to stare at her. Her smile was sad, but she looked over her shoulder at them with soft eyes. "I know you think that," she said. "But you've only known him since he was in business school. It's a lot of stress for him; I promise he isn't always short-tempered like this."

She tilted her face up to the sky, and it was the _hope_ there that killed Athos the most. "He just wants to make a good life for us," she said, and Athos hoped she was trying to convince them more than herself. "We've been together for _years;_ everybody has rough patches in five years."

"Very true," Aramis said gently, and glanced over his shoulder at Athos and Porthos to caution them to silence. They didn't need to push it tonight.

Athos looked sideways at d'Artagnan, who hadn't spoken in an unusually long time. D'Artagnan was gazing fixedly at Constance, and if it had been hope in Constance's face that had made Athos' chest ache, it was the total, utter _lack_ of hope in d'Artagnan's that hurt now.

Athos walked a little closer to him, and d'Artagnan accepted the brush of his shoulder with a wry twist of his lips.

"So, who's going to sing tonight?" Aramis asked brightly, breaking the tension, and everyone could breathe again. That conversation carried them all the way down the hill to the student center, as Aramis and Porthos bickered cheerfully about whether or not Aramis could hit the high notes in "Let It Go" if he really wanted to (Aramis didn't think he could; Porthos thought he'd be fine, and that anyway half the people listening would be drunk and didn't cared).

Athos kept an ear on the conversation and an eye on d'Artagnan. Their younger friend was quiet and subdued all the way to the student center and all the way down the stairs to the basement, where they joined the line of people waiting to check into the Louvre.

Louis and Anna, the heads of the student activities committee, had a very strict rule about karaoke night being a safe space, and everyone had to check in their cell phones before joining the party. Everyone went along with it for two reasons: one, no one really wanted a video of them drunkenly singing The Smiths to end up on YouTube; and two, Louis' father owned some huge record company, so Louis was an absolute master of music. The guy could get absolutely any song you wanted to sing, sans lyric track (or with it, if you just felt like a singalong), in about twenty seconds flat.

Louis as a person sort of got on Athos' nerves, but Louis the benevolent god of student activities was a marvel. 

"It's been a while since you've all turned up," Louis said cheerfully as Aramis led their group in. 

"Glad to see you all rejoining campus life," Anna said, smiling as she reached up for their phones. "It was good to see you at church again, Aramis."

Aramis just smiled and half-bowed. Athos and Porthos caught each others' eye, then looked quickly away so they wouldn't break out in giggles. Aramis had been hopelessly smitten with Anna since their first year, and if she caught him off-guard like that, he had a tendency to lose all powers of speech. Nothing would ever come of it--for some reason, she and Louis were inseparable--but it was a harmless little thing, and Athos thought it was kind of sweet, in a sad way. Anna was the only person Aramis had ever set his affections on that Athos thought might actually deserve him.

"Anybody singing tonight?" Louis asked as Anna checked in their phones. He had the list of people and songs out before them, so he could get the playlist in order. "Aramis, Ninon has you two down for a duet, she didn't say what."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine. And it's d'Artagnan's first time, so he has to pop his cherry with something."

D'Artagnan's face was a perfectly comic expression of terror. "Oh, no, I'm really not--"

"Everybody does," Anna said, reaching over to pat his hand. "If it helps at all, I did a completely tragic rendition of the Spice Girls my first time."

"We all loved it," Aramis said loyally, and Constance stepped on his foot.

"Everybody?" D'Artagnan asked, looking suspiciously around at his friends.

"Everybody," Louis confirmed. "Even the ones who can't carry a tune." He looked significantly at Porthos, who shrugged in perfect unselfconsciousness. "I'm putting you on the list," he told d'Artagnan, and scribbled something on the clipboard. "Come find me when you figure out a song."

"It's like Rocky Horror," Constance said comfortingly to d'Artagnan as they staked out a table. "They pull you up onstage if it's your first time, but everybody's with you, no one's going to laugh or anything. And if you don't think you're a good singer, you can do something everyone will sing along to, so you won't feel so alone. I did a Disney song--so did Aramis."

"Porthos rapped," Aramis said, grinning at him. 

Porthos shrugged. "What? I can't sing to save my life, so I went old-school."

D'Artagnan looked marginally more comforted, and Aramis patted his shoulder. "You'll be fine. I need to go figure out what the hell Ninon's got up her sleeve, be right back."

"Drinks?" Constance suggested to Porthos, and he nodded and got up. "Round of beers?" she asked Athos, and he nodded for him and for Aramis in absentia. "D'Artagnan, Coke or Sprite?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes expressively. "Coke, please."

His eyes followed her as she and Porthos made their way through the crowd, saying hi to people they knew, chatting with the other people waiting at the bar. She looked at ease for the first time since last weekend, and particularly pretty in the hazy lights of the bar.

D'Artagnan sighed, resting his chin on his hand.

Athos felt a little pang of sympathy, and he decided to take pity on him. "'Wake Me Up When September Ends,'" he said. 

D'Artagnan frowned and looked up at him. "What?" 

"The time we came stoned. It was my first time, so I sang that."

D'Artagnan stared at him. Then a smile spread slowly across his face, and he laughed out loud. "But you hate _American Idiot."_

"Sober Athos does. Stoned Athos loved it."

"Oh, my God," d'Artagnan laughed, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head, and he looked like he fit, suddenly--just another college kid, at a bar with his friends, at his ease.

Athos smiled and looked out at the crowd. It was just after nine, and the place was pretty full, about as full as it was probably going to be. He saw a few people from the fencing team and waved back when they caught his eye, and there were some people he knew from classes, some other athletes who worked at the sports center and staffed events, one or two people he'd known from high school and resolutely ignored... He knew a lot of people on this campus, he realized, and more than that, judging from the friendly smiles and nods, a lot of them seemed to actually like him. It was a strange world sometimes.

"Good news," Aramis said as he slid into the chair beside Athos. 

"Ninon's decided to do a solo instead?" Athos asked with a perfectly straight face.

Aramis slugged him in the shoulder. "Funny, Athos."

"Yes, I thought so."

D'Artagnan snickered, and Aramis lifted his chin haughtily, holding up a slim silver memory stick. "I was _going_ to say that I finally ran into Malik and got his flash drive full of _Game of Thrones,_ but since you've both decided to be assholes--"

"I take it all back, you sing like an angel and I'm not funny at all," Athos said instantly, eyeing the drive hungrily. 

"Are we just saying stuff that's true?" Porthos said, as he and Constance came back with four beers and a tall glass of Coke. "Can I play? This beer is overpriced and I think I wasn't clear enough with Andrew from the swim team when I told him I wasn't into him."

"Aramis ran into Malik," Athos informed him. Porthos punched the air and slid him a beer. "And doesn't Andrew have a girlfriend?"

"They're bored and looking for a threesome to spice things up instead of talking about how there's no romance in their relationship anymore," Ninon said, appearing suddenly at his elbow. "Don't say yes."

"I wasn't gonna," Porthos snorted. 

There wasn't an extra chair, so Ninon just sat down in Aramis' lap. Athos surprised himself by not feeling jealous at all, of either of them. Aramis seemed happy for the touch--they called d'Artagnan a puppy sometimes, but Aramis could turn into one just as easily if you pet him--and Ninon was perfectly casual about the whole thing. She winked at him, and Athos lifted his drink in acknowledgement. 

They chatted aimlessly for a little while, until Louis came sidling up through the crowd with his list. "Decisions made?"

"Yes," Ninon said, reaching for the clipboard and writing a song down beside her and Aramis' names. "This one--" She poked Aramis with her elbow. "Still has some penance to do for ruining my party last week." Aramis had the good grace to look a little sheepish, even as he wrapped his arms around her waist and settled his chin on her shoulder.

"Oh, I heard about that," Louis said, looking over his clipboard. "I really don't care for Tom _or_ Kevin, so I'm letting it slide, Aramis, but please do not mess up any pub nights getting involved in domestic disputes."

Aramis nodded solemnly. "Pub nights are sacred, your Majesty."

Louis rolled his eyes, but he was smiling--he and Anna both liked the royal nicknames they'd acquired. "Fine." He turned to d'Artagnan, and slowly moved the clipboard back and forth under his nose. "Decisions?"

D'Artagnan swallowed his mouthful of Coke and reached for the clipboard. "I guess." He started to write, then, looked nervously up at them all. "Nineties is always good for a singalong, right?"

"Perfection," Louis assured him, and d'Artagnan scribbled the rest of the song, looking heartened. "I'll let you know a few songs before you're on." He smiled at him, the bright and slightly absent-minded smile that was so characteristic of Louis, then drifted off through the crowd to the stage.

Porthos reached around Athos and clapped his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder encouragingly. "You'll do fine." 

D'Artagnan smiled weakly as Anna and Louis hopped up on stage to kick off the night. 

"I'm glad we came out tonight," Constance said a few songs later, when they'd all finished their first beer and the usual dancing crowds had formed around the stage. "I forgot how much fun this is."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. He was stretched out in his chair, tipping it back onto two legs and watching everyone dance with the singers onstage--a group of sophomore girls singing Ke$ha with contagious enthusiasm. "Good party tonight."

Athos nodded, leaning slightly into Porthos' shoulder. After a moment, Porthos' arm settled on the back of his chair, and Athos felt a curl of warm affection in his stomach. It was perfectly casual--no one who knew them would think much of it, so it was fine. But it meant a lot to Athos.

"We're up after them," Ninon said, patting Aramis' leg, and she got up, stretching slightly.

"What's your penance, then?" d'Artagnan asked him, grinning.

Aramis sighed. "Kelly Clarkson."

"Don't you say a word about my queen Kelly," Constance warned him.

Aramis swept her a bow as he stood up. "It's the song choice, not the singer." He grimaced slightly as Ninon swept her way up to the stage. "She's about to force me to be uncomfortably honest, is all."

"And we know you hate that," Porthos drawled, flashing him a smile.

"Break a leg," Athos told him, lifting his drink.

Aramis winked at them. "Cheers, darling," he said, and followed Ninon.

Athos felt his heart do a curious little shiver as he watched Aramis and Ninon climb up onto the stage. Uncomfortably honest? 

The people standing and dancing cheered wildly as Aramis and Ninon took the microphones off the stands, and their table clapped along with everyone else. Aramis and Ninon were campus rockstars--good-looking, popular, and actually decent human beings--and already, Aramis was looking happier, more settled, under the stage lights and the adoration of crowds of people.

The music started, and the people who recognized it broke out into another cheer.

"Oh, she's good," Constance said, grinning fiercely up at Ninon on stage. Ninon looked like some kind of music goddess under the lights with her long golden curls flowing over her shoulders, and she and Aramis bounced along to the (admittedly familiar-sounding) bass line, grinning at each other.

"What?" all three of the boys asked, looking at her.

Constance rolled her eyes. "Just listen."

Ninon knelt along the edge of the stage, beaming, and reaching out to touch all their fans' outstretched fingers. _"Guess this means you're sorry,"_ she sang, _"you're standing at my door-- Guess this means you take back all you said before..."_

"Oh, no," d'Artagnan laughed, as he recognized the song. "Oh, she's gonna make him say it."

"Yep," Constance confirmed, and the two of them looked quickly to Athos and Porthos, then grinned at each other.

Athos was going to ask, but then it kicked into the chorus and Aramis' voice joined Ninon's--and the whole bar's, as everyone sang along.

_"'Cause we belong together now, yeah; forever united here, somehow, yeah--"_

"Oh, shit," Porthos half-laughed beside him, sounding a little overwhelmed, and Athos finally knew why. He'd thought the intro had been familiar.

_You've got a piece of me, and honestly--_

"My life would suck without you," he said along with the words, a painful combination of pleasure and embarrassment twisting in the pit of his stomach. Ninon was making Aramis apologize to him and Porthos, in her own particular way.

She'd picked a painfully apt song.

Aramis looked good, so good under the stage lights, with his dark t-shirt clinging to his narrow torso and with his face carefully altered by highlight and shadow. Athos found he'd been right, earlier--the pub's lighting showed off the careful work Aramis had done with his makeup, and he looked beautifully different, somehow so much more himself under the protective layer of powder. He seemed easy in a way Athos rarely saw him, as he cradled a microphone in his hands and sang, grinning, to the crowds around the stage. _"Maybe I was stupid for telling you goodbye, maybe I was wrong for trying to pick a fight..."_

His gaze flickered to their table, finding them in the crowd, and Athos' heart gave a guilty twitch. Porthos stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and Aramis' face split into a smile. _"I know that I've got issues,"_ he sang to them, and his smile widened into a full-fledged grin at the next line. _"But you're pretty messed-up, too."_ Athos lifted his glass in a toast, and Aramis ducked his head, beaming. _"Either way, I found out, I'm nothing without you--"_

He reached out a hand to Ninon and twirled her, and they sang the chorus again, to the thunderous approval and full-throated belting of everyone in the bar. The two of them looked so perfect together, dancing and jumping and grinning at each other--they were both so lovely and so confident, and Athos wished he could someday have half the ease the two of them had in front of people. They knew they were loved, and they milked it shamelessly.

Aramis looked up at them again over the crowds between them, and even over the noise of everything and everyone else, Athos clearly heard the apology in Aramis' voice on the last chorus. _My life would suck without you..._

Porthos sighed, a soft, wanting sound that Athos only heard because he was so close, and Athos leaned into his side even more. He didn't think he'd ever forget the cold agony of that fight on the grass in front of Baudelaire, but it was forgiven. Completely.

He clapped as hard as anyone when the song ended. Aramis and Ninon couldn't get down off the stage for a minute, people were cheering so hard--the drinks had been flowing, true, but it had also been damn good. Aramis bowed and Ninon swept several graceful curtseys, then at last Aramis hopped down off the stage and reached up to take Ninon around the waist and lift her down.

"This was like a scene out of a particularly cheesy college rom-com," Athos said as they approached the table, flushed with success and holding hands. "And I mean that as a compliment."

"You have such a way with words, Athos," Aramis laughed, leaning on the back of d'Artagnan's chair. Somehow, even he could make sweaty and disheveled a good look.

"I love it," Ninon declared, bending to press a smacking kiss to Athos' lips. "Does that mean it was too perfect for real life?"

"Exactly," Athos said. He smiled up at her, and she beamed back. He tried to put his thanks into his eyes, and she winked at him.

"Wonderful." Then Ninon turned, and in unison, she and Aramis hauled d'Artagnan up out of his chair. "You're up, puppydog."

"What?" d'Artagnan yelped, his eyes comically wide. "You said you'd give me a few songs' warning--"

Aramis ruffled d'Artagnan's hair. "Which would only give you time to be nervous. You'll do fine."

"Constance," d'Artagnan appealed, looking over his shoulder at her, but she just smiled and raised her glass to him.

"Have fun, sweetheart," she called.

"Poor little bastard," Porthos said, grinning around the note of sympathy in his voice. 

"He'll be fine," Athos said laconically, as they watched Ninon and Aramis push d'Artagnan up onto the stage. 

They'd already warmed up the crowd, so when Aramis yelled, "Give it up for the newbie!" a chorus of cheers followed. 

D'Artagnan nervously pushed his hair back, pale and awkward under the lights, but he gamely took the microphone off the stand, all the same. It was a strange thing to feel _proud_ of him--Athos wasn't his parent or older brother, for heaven's sake--still, d'Artagnan's fighting spirit was something to be admired.

Especially when he used it to thoroughly put them all to shame. Like right now.

"What the fuck was he worried about?" Porthos demanded, but he was laughing as he let his chair fall forward onto all four legs. "Listen to that little shit."

"Dreamy," Aramis said, sliding into d'Artagnan's abandoned chair beside Athos. "Definitely dreamy." 

The three of them shared a look, then glanced over at Constance. She was alternatingly between gazing fixedly at d'Artagnan and looking hurriedly down at her beer. 

Athos could sympathize. If someone had been up on stage singing an actually pretty good rendition of "Story of a Girl," probably for him, he'd be blushing, too.

And he _did_ blush, very deeply, when he glanced over and caught Porthos giving him a fond look during the chorus. Aramis laughed, and Athos knew he'd caught it, too. 

"Oh, shut up," Athos muttered, and hid his blush in another drink of beer.

Aramis leaned affectionately into him, and Athos let his arm fall onto the back of Aramis' chair. Aramis made a soft sound, shifting closer, and there they were, Athos against Porthos and Aramis against Athos, nested together like a matched set.

It felt good. Really, really good.

Athos knew, with a strange clarity, that it would only last as long as the song did. That didn't keep him from wishing differently.

The bar erupted in cheers when d'Artagnan finished, and when they all straightened to applaud, the spell broke. Aramis straightened, and Athos let his arm slide slowly off the back. On stage, d'Artagnan shyly ducked his head, grinning somewhat sheepishly in the face of the applause, and Aramis glanced over his shoulder at Athos. "Takes after you more, I think, but he has my panache."

Athos let out an extremely indelicate snort, and Porthos, who'd unfortunately chosen that moment to take a drink of his beer, nearly inhaled a mouthful of Guinness. Athos narrowly avoided being sprayed with stout, and Aramis collapsed in giggles.

"Boys," Constance said severely, looking over her shoulder, and they all assumed appropriately contrite expressions and joined in the enthusiastic applause.

D'Artagnan had to take a few bows before the crowd around the stage let him get down. He had a definite swagger to his step when he returned to the table. "You're still an asshole for springing it on me," he said to Aramis as he collapsed back into his seat, "but I will admit--that was fun."

"You were magnificent," Aramis assured him. His dark eyes flicked slyly across the table. "Wasn't he, Constance?"

Constance turned a little pink, but nodded brightly all the same. "Really, really good." D'Artagnan grinned a little nervously at her, and Constance held his smile for a few moments before ducking her head again.

Athos kicked Aramis' leg under the table, and Aramis coughed and changed the subject. "Well, I think that's the last real Dumas initiation you were down for, d'Artagnan," he said easily, stretching out and hanging an arm off the back of d'Artagnan's chair. "Congratulations, you're a real Musketeer."

"Oh, _thank_ you, Aramis, thank you so much," d'Artagnan drawled, and took a drink of his Coke. He was flushed with happiness, and he sat much straighter than he had when he'd gone on stage. Success was a good look on him.

He was also suddenly the most popular boy in the bar. Athos and the others watched as dozens of people just dropped by the table to say hello, and usually it was just Aramis who got mobbed by drop-in well-wishers. And while there were plenty of those, Aramis accepted all their love with a slightly more subued grace than usual, and introduced every single one to d'Artagnan.

It was unusually generous of him, when Athos knew Aramis jealously hoarded every single scrap of attention, like a dragon, to brood over on his gloomier, lonelier days. He knew Aramis liked to make sure d'Artagnan did well for himself, but he normally wasn't this self-effacing in the process.

It wasn't until Aramis glanced carefully at him and Porthos, when another group of fans had been smoothly diverted to congratulate d'Artagnan, that Athos understood. Aramis was still apologizing, to all of them.

Athos didn't know what to say, and calling attention to it out loud would have seemed...cruel, in a way. He didn't want to hold this over Aramis for the rest of their lives, and he didn't want Aramis to think they were still trying to punish him for it.

So instead, he shifted his chair, casually pulling it a little closer to the table, and draped his arm over the back of Aramis' chair again.

Aramis didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge the gesture at all. But his spine, usually held so rigidly straight, curved slightly, some of his tension relaxing, and his smile seemed to brighten.

Porthos' thumb traced gently over the back of Athos' shoulder, and Athos breathed easier.

The adoring fans kept coming, more than a few offering to buy d'Artagnan a drink (and Athos firmly and without reservation rebuked every single one of those offers), and the rest inviting d'Artagnan to go and sit with them.

"Oh, go," Porthos said the third time, when a few of their fellow fencers tried to steal d'Artagnan away to another table. "Go table-hop like the celebrity you are."

"Go," Athos echoed, smiling, when d'Artagnan looked at him in a silent request for permission. "We weren't going to make you stay with us all night. Have fun. Do not have _anything_ to drink."

 _"Yes,_ mother," d'Artagnan said, rolling his eyes as he stood up. He flashed them all a quick grin, then, and followed Ben and Tian off to their table closer to the bar.

"They grow up so fast," Aramis sighed. 

Constance was the next one to drift away, spotting a group of her lab friends dancing in the corner, and Ninon had flitted away to her people ages ago. Athos would never say it out loud, but he liked it being just the three of them, sharing a drink. They hadn't really spent any time together, just them, in what felt like an eternity. The night went on around them--everyone on stage was having fun, and it permeated into the crowds scattered through the room. Athos hadn't felt this peaceful in a crowd of people for a long time.

"Let's go," Aramis said suddenly, turning to them.

Porthos shot him a curious look. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Aramis hastened to assure them. He shrugged, smiling slightly, and reached up to tuck his hair behind his ears. "I just...I don't know, I just feel like getting out of here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flash drive he'd borrowed. "We could go watch _Game of Thrones,"_ he offered. "Just us?"

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. 

_Just us?_

How could they pass up an offer like that?

"Sure," Athos said, pushing his chair back. "Let me tell d'Artagnan we're going."

As Porthos and Aramis went to bus their empty beer bottles, Athos threaded his way through the crowds to where d'Artagnan sat. Athos only recognized about half of the people, which meant d'Artagnan had to know even less than that, but the boy seemed to be having fun. "Hey," d'Artagnan said, grinning up at him. "You guys heading out?"

"Yeah," Athos said, looking around the table. "Staying?"

"Maybe just for a bit." D'Artagnan looked guiltily excited. "Then there's a party over in Delacroix, they just invited me."

Athos had to bite down his initial reaction to say _no, come home with us._ Still an older brother at heart, he thought ruefully, and forced himself to smile and nod. "Have fun," he said.

"Make good choices," Aramis sang teasingly, melting out of the crowd to press himself up along Athos' shoulder. 

"Go home," d'Artagnan laughed, flicking a balled-up straw at him. "I'll see you later."

"I would consider tonight a rousing success," Aramis said as they made their way over to where Porthos was reclaiming their phones from Anne and Louis. "I feel like the proud parent of a debutante."

"It's karaoke night, not Miss America," Athos told him, and Aramis laughed.

"Leaving so soon?" Louis' face twisted into a pout as he sat back in his chair. "You have to come back next Friday--this is the best night we've had all semester."

"We endeavour to give your Majesties satisfaction," Aramis said, sweeping a bow. 

Anna laughed as she passed their cell phones across the table. "I hope we'll see you soon," she said, smiling up at them. 

"Us, too," Porthos said, for all of them, then they ducked out into the comparative cool and quiet of the hallway.

It had gotten colder when they stepped outside, the clouds of their breath thicker and heavier, and almost on instinct Porthos and Athos moved to put Aramis between them, shielding him from the wind. 

"Thanks," Aramis said, shoving his hands in his pocket and looking up at the sky.

"We have to protect our delicate desert flower," Porthos said, perfectly seriously. 

Aramis lunged at him, and the entire walk back to the dorm became a chase, with the two of them running circles around Athos and shouting playful obscenities at each other. Athos walked with his hands in his pockets, shaking his head and trying very hard not to laugh out loud as they jumped and dodged around him. He hadn't heard either of them laughing like this in weeks. It just--felt good.

"We're home," he announced as they started up the hill to Alexander. "Are you two done yet?"

"Definitely not," Aramis panted. He grinned wolfishly at Porthos as he danced just out of his reach. "We're just warming up, aren't we?"

Athos glanced over his shoulder. "Porthos?"

"Yeah," Porthos said, and swooped forward. He could always startle them both with how fast he was, and Aramis yelped in surprise as Porthos ducked, caught him around the waist, and literally slung him over his shoulder.

"Oh, you fucker!" Aramis laughed, slamming his fist on Porthos' back as Porthos carried him up the steps. "You absolute fucker, put me down!"

"Nnnnnno, I don't think so," Porthos said, drawing out the word thoughtfully. He grinned at Athos, and it was really obscene how strong he was, Athos thought absently. Porthos didn't even look like he was straining, and Aramis was fairly tall. He was also squirming like hell, and Porthos didn't seem bothered at all. "Mind your head," he told Aramis as Athos swiped them through the door, and Aramis had the presence of mind to duck before the back of his head cracked against the doorframe.

"You are _not_ carrying me all the way upstairs," Aramis exclaimed when Porthos made no motion to put him down in the lobby. 

"Guess again," Porthos said cheerfully, and he flicked Aramis hard in the leg with his mostly-free hand. "Stop squirming or you'll hit your head in the elevator."

Aramis kicked his legs uselessly, but when he looked up at Athos for help, he was still smiling, so Athos figured he wasn't in too much distress. "Christ Almighty, Porthos," he said, wriggling fruitlessly, "would you _just--"_

"I wll when we get upstairs," Porthos said with infuriating calm. The elevator door dinged open, and Athos followed them inside, careful to make sure Aramis' head was in no danger of the door.

Aramis' threats grew more colorful and creative with each floor they passed. When they came out on the fourth floor, he was waxing eloquent about how he was going to lock Porthos in the fencing room and feed him nothing but dining hall hot dogs for a month. "--I mean it, you absolute and complete shithead, you drop me this second before someone sees you carrying me over your shoulder like a sack of fucking potatoes--this is not dignified!"

"Are we really that big on dignity?" Athos asked philosophically as he led the way to his room. 

Somehow, Aramis managed to kick him in the shoulder without even being able to see him. He did have impeccable aim.

"That hurt," Athos informed him as he opened the door. "You're sitting on the squeaky end of the mattress for that."

"You both suck," Aramis declared as Porthos carried him inside. "You're both the absolute worst, and I hate you-- _shit!"_

He yelped in surprise as Porthos abruptly flipped him back over his shoulder and spilled him onto the mattress. Aramis lay there, startled, for a second, staring up at Athos' ceiling--then he burst into laughter, curling in on himself in a fit of helpless giggles.

Porthos grinned and flopped down beside him, and Aramis shoved his leg, still laughing helplessly.

Athos leaned against the windowsill and just watched them, laughing and tangled in each other. It ached in a surprisingly...bearable way.

"Are you two done?" he asked finally, when Aramis' giggles seemed to have faded to manageable levels and Porthos had wrangled him into one side of the bed, making space for Athos to join them. "I can go somewhere else, if you need more time to be six year-olds."

"Turn on the damn laptop and get over here," Aramis laughed, digging the flash drive out of his pocket and tossing it to Athos. 

Grinning, Athos caught it and headed to his desk. In almost no time at all, he'd joined them on the bed, his laptop resting on his desk chair and blaring the familiar theme at them. They all picked a part and sang along, as was tradition by now, and somehow, Aramis had ended up in the middle. He was wrigglier than an eel when he wanted to be touched, and Athos really couldn't bring himself to object tonight.

Or ever, really. 

Porthos shifted on Aramis' other side, and Athos glanced over at him. Porthos gave him a look that was the visual equivalent of a shrug, and wrapped an arm around Aramis, tugging him close. Aramis made a happy sound and slouched down against him without a fight, and Athos followed, pressing just a little closer to Aramis. Aramis stretched out a leg and hooked his ankle over Athos', and the three of them stayed just like that as the night wore on.

"I think you would be a Baratheon, Porthos," Aramis said, three episodes later, as the old discussion inevitably rekindled. "Yours is the fury and all."

"Martell," Porthos said firmly. "Unbowed, unbent, unbroken." Porthos, of the three of them, was the only one who'd read all the books. Athos had read the Wikipedia page for each book, not patient enough to read all of them, and Aramis steadfastly watched the show and avoided spoilers.

"I haven't met them yet," Aramis said loudly, reaching up to cover Porthos' mouth. "And until I do, you're a Baratheon."

Athos reached over and tugged Aramis' hand off Porthos' mouth before any biting or licking could start and disrupt their viewing even further. "And you're still a Tyrell, you feel?"

Aramis nodded firmly. "They seem to be the only ones even vaguely comfortable with flaming queerness, so, that's my house." Porthos opened his mouth, and Aramis elbowed him in the chest. "Make another delicate flower joke and I end you, Porthos."

"Wasn't gonna," Porthos said, rubbing at his chest. "Was gonna make another joke about Athos and Starks."

"Yes, the house of terrible decisions, I know," Athos said good-naturedly.

Before he could say anything else, his phone buzzed once--twice--three times, and kept going, rattling across the top of his fridge. Athos glanced at his alarm clock, then reached over for it. Who was calling him at two in the morning?

He lifted it to his ear, frowning. "Hello?"

A pause, then a thick, slightly slurred voice asked, "Athos? You there?"

Athos sat up straighter. "D'Artagnan?" Aramis and Porthos looked sharply at him, and Athos motioned to them to pause the episode. "Are you all right?"

"Um," d'Artagnan said, and he sounded completely unlike himself--stumbling, sleepy, not right at all. "No, I don't really think so."

"What's the matter?" Aramis asked, pushing his hair out of his face and sitting up.

"He sounds wrong," Athos said quietly, and pressed the phone closer to his ear. There was too muich noise in the background. "D'Artagnan? Are you still at the party?"

"Yeah," d'Artagnan said after a moment. There was a strange fall at the end of his words. "Can you come get me?"

Athos pushed himself up off the bed, looking around for his shoes. "Of course."

"Is he sick?" Porthos asked sharply, sitting up, too. 

Athos nodded--he certainly didn't sound _well_ \--and Aramis sprang off the bed, moving for his shoes and jacket with surprising speed. Porthos followed, scrambling for where he'd kicked his shoes under the desk. 

Athos was impossibly grateful for them. "D'Artagnan, just stay put, okay, we'll be there soon."

"Thanks," d'Artagnan sighed. "Just you and the guys, okay? Don't--don't bring Constance."

It was a strange request, but an impulse Athos could understand. "Just us," he promised, looking over at them. Porthos nodded, putting on his shoes, and Aramis had already slipped on his own and abandoned his thin jacket for one of Athos' sweatshirts. 

Aramis made a motion for the phone, and Athos needed to get his own coat on, anyway. "D'Artagnan, Aramis wants to talk to you, all right? Just keep talking to him." He passed the phone off, inexplicably relieved that Aramis wanted to take it. Something about the way d'Artagnan's voice was slurring sent an uncomfortable shiver through his hands.

"Hey there, kid," Aramis said easily, his voice sliding into a smooth gentleness in half a second. "Good job calling, we'll be there really soon. Can you tell me what happened?" Aramis worked his summers as a lifeguard, and was extremely good at both first aid and talking down panicked, hurt people. It always startled Athos a bit, how his happy-go-lucky friend could instantly become so calm and professional--but he would never, ever complain.

Aramis kept up a running stream of easy conversation as the three of them hurried across the campus to Delacroix Hall, and his soft repetitions of d'Artagnan's answers twisted Athos into knots almost as much as the initial worrying conversation had. D'Artagnan wasn't a hundred percent sure of where he was, he couldn't remember where the other fencers had gone, and he felt sick and dizzy.

"It's okay, d'Artagnan," Aramis said soothingly into the phone as they jogged up the steps to Delacroix. "We're here now, we'll be upstairs soon. Can you keep talking to me?"

"He wouldn't have taken something," Porthos said in an undertone to Athos as he swiped his ID card. "Not if a stranger offered it to him, he knows better--"

"I know," Athos said shortly as the door unlocked, and he yanked it open, leading the way inside. He wasn't too delighted about the alternative option.

Two girls were sitting on the couch in the lobby--well, 'sitting' was not the most apt description of what they were doing. "Hey!" Porthos called to them, and they broke apart in surprise. "What floor's this fucking party on?"

"Third," one of them said in annoyance, flashing him the finger as she turned back to her girlfriend. "Fuck off."

"Thanks," Athos said, heading for the elevator.

The third floor was a mess. Empty and spilled cups littered the floor, weed smoke floated thick in the air (there were bags over the smoke alarms, and Athos was _definitely_ calling Campus Police when they'd gotten d'Artagnan out), and there was more than one puddle of someone's sick in the hallway. Music blared so loudly Athos could hardly hear himself thing.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis half-yelled into the phone, covering his other ear with his hand, "where are you?" He closed his eyes, listening, then made an exasperated face. "On someone's bed, or a chair, or a couch?" A moment, then he motioned down the hall. "Common room."

Porthos moved first, his bulk the most effective battering ram they had, and Athos and Aramis followed closely on his heels. 

The common room was crowded with people sitting, standing, and drinking, and it was only slightly less ear-splitting in here. D'Artagnan's lanky form lay curled in on itself on a corner of the couch, his phone resting on the side of his head. His arm dangled limply off the couch, and his normally tan skin looked pale, even in the shitty light.

Porthos shoved his way through the crowd and knelt beside the couch, Athos and Aramis behind him. "D'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan lifted his head, squinting owlishly up at them through the fall of his dark hair. "Oh, hey," he said, and the slurring in his voice was even worse in person. "You found me."

"Yes, we did," Aramis said, and slipped an arm under d'Artagnan's shoulders, lifting him upright. The motion made d'Artagnan's head sway on his neck, and their younger friend groaned pitifully. 

"You gonna be sick?" Porthos asked, carefully taking d'Artagnan's head in his hands.

"Maybe," d'Artagnan said, blinking heavily, and it seemed like he couldn't keep his eyes open.

A sudden chill swept down Athos' spine, and he mentally went over d'Artagnan's symptoms--nausea, dizziness, confusion and drowsiness... 

No. Surely not.

"Let's get him outside," he said in Porthos' ear, and Porthos nodded. With Aramis' help, Porthos maneuvered d'Artagnan up off the couch until he was half-carrying him, and like some six-legged creature, the three of them made their way out of the room. 

Athos loitered slightly behind them, looking carefully at all the other partygoers. A few more of them seemed dazed like d'Artagnan, but none quite as bad. D'Artagnan was sick. The rest of them were just--

Stoned.

Athos shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking and followed his friends. As they got into the elevator, out of the corner of his eye, Athos caught a flash of long, dark curls just at the end of the hall--then the door closed, and it was just him, his friends, and his suddenly pounding heart.

 _No,_ he told himself forcefully, closing his eyes and remembering to breathe in and exhale slowly. _You're going to see her everywhere if you let yourself._

"Did you take anything, d'Artagnan?" Aramis was saying, holding d'Artagnan's chin up with one hand and peering closely into his eyes. "It's fine if you did, we aren't mad, I just want to know."

"I had a drink," d'Artagnan sighed, and his head lolled forward until his forehead rested on Aramis' shoulder. "It was supposed to just be orange juice and vodka, but I think it was too bitter."

"Okay," Aramis said, stroking over d'Artagnan's hair. "Okay, that's all right." 

The door dinged, and they walked him through the lobby, past the kissing girls and out into the chilly night.

"I left my jacket upstairs," d'Artagnan mumbled into Aramis' sweatshirt.

"I'll go back for it," Athos promised, and he motioned for them to sit him down on the steps. "Let me just take a look at you first."

Porthos and Aramis gave him a strange look, but did as he asked. Slowly, they lowered d'Artagnan to one side of the stairs, sitting down beside him. This way, they were under the streetlamp, and Athos took d'Artagnan's face in his hands and lifted it up to the light.

D'Artagnan gazed up at him, blinking repeatedly to keep Athos' face in focus, and that would have been almost enough to convince Athos, right there. More than that, though, he recognized that glassy, dull look on his friend's face. 

He'd seen it staring back in the mirror at him hundreds of times.

He'd seen it on Thomas' face, once. _Thomas, his face pale against a dirty carpet, a single strand of hair stuck to his cheekbone and a faint, clear line tracking down his chin--_

Athos jerked himself back into the present, feeling colder than ever as his sudden sweat evaporated in the night air. D'Artagnan's face was warm under his hands, his skin clammy but undoubtedly alive, and Athos forced himself to focus on that.

"Someone slipped you a pill," he said, pushing d'Artagnan's sweaty hair back from his face. "With the alcohol you drank, and probably with all the marijuana smoke up there, it's making you feel sick. But you'll be all right."

"What kind of pill?" d'Artagnan asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

Athos swallowed. "Oxycodone." Just the _name_ almost made him get the shakes.

"How do you know?" Porthos asked. His gaze was heavy and intent when Athos glanced over at him.

"I know," Athos said shortly, and stood up. "Stay with him. I'll be right back."

"Do you want one of us to come with you?" Aramis asked, far too perceptive for Athos' comfort. His dark eyes were locked on Athos', and there was a silent question that Athos did not, _would not_ answer.

He looked steadily back at Aramis. "I will be right back," he repeated, low and quiet, like a promise.

Aramis nodded slowly, and Athos climbed up the stairs again.

He didn't take the elevator this time. Instead, he walked around to the stairs halfway down the hall, giving himself some time to breathe. The physical activity helped; it kept his mind from going too deeply down the rabbit hole. 

The third floor was just as much of a fucking mess as it had been, and Athos moved quickly through the chaos. He avoided looking into the faces of the people scattered around--he knew he'd see that same drug-glazed look, and he was fucking _scared_ that one moment of eye contact would be enough to drag him back under. He wasn't fucking strong enough for this.

A white fencing jacket. Why was this so fucking hard? Nothing else in this fucking floor was white.

As he circled the crowded common room a second time, frustration growing, a voice called behind him, "Looking for this?" 

Athos' back stiffened.

He'd known. Something low and buried in his mind had known. He'd come up here to see her. 

Athos turned.

Anne leaned in the doorway, d'Artagnan's white jacket dangling from her hand.

Athos had to step into the doorway to take it from her. "Thank you," he said tonelessly, and started to move past her.

Her arm shot out to brace herself against the doorjamb, effectively blocking him, and Anne smiled sweetly at him. "I didn't think this was your kind of party anymore, Athos," she said, the barest cutting edge lingering under her voice. 

This close, he could see the faint cloud over the sharp green of her eyes. She was high, too. Not a lot--just to take her edges off--but it was enough to send him spiraling. 

They used to do this together.

He focused on the texture of d'Artagnan's jacket under his fingers. 

_I didn't think this was your kind of party anymore._

"It's not," he said. He felt like a dog straining at the edge of its leash--he wanted to move past her, he was practically teetering on the balls of his feet, but he'd have to touch her to push her arm out of the way. 

He worried what would happen if he touched her--if it would somehow break his illusion of security, or self-reliance, and let her come flooding back into him.

"Is your little puppy okay?" she asked. "He looked sick when he left." 

Athos looked sharply at her. Anne's face was too innocent, too blank, and oh, he _remembered_ how she'd look at him that way--when she'd set up a surprise for him and didn't want him to know. 

He stared at her. "You didn't."

Her face slid into an awful, cruel smile. "Well, I had to get your attention somehow."

His chest clenched, and more anger than he'd ever felt in his life rushed up and choked him. 

He grabbed the doorjamb behind her, leaned in close, and his voice was low and deadly. "Don't you _ever,"_ he snarled, "touch him again."

"Technically, I didn't touch him," she said clinically, lifting her chin. "I provided some substances and one may have fallen into the screwdrivers."

Athos shook his head in disgust, barely stopping himself from lashing out the way he wanted to. If this had been high school, they'd be screaming at each other, barely an inch apart, and it would end with savage kissing and painful fucking on the nearest hard surface. They'd done it before. 

He swallowed down every vitriolic thing he wanted to say. "Still dealing drugs and preying on the weakest, then, Anne?" he asked, knowing the low blow would hurt worse than his anger. She wanted to make him angry.

Her eyes gleamed coldly in the low light. "Still too wrapped up in your own shit to look after your little brother?"

Athos choked. 

Anne smiled, and he _hated_ her, he _hated her._ She leaned in close, knowing he was frozen, paralyzed with guilt and sickness and grief, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Every single muscle in his body tensed against letting her in, holding up his walls, holding himself secure. "If you'd been here with me," she breathed, "you'd have been able to look after him. You should join us next time."

She touched him, then, the barest brush against his cheek with her fingers cool against his flushed skin, and there was something in her hand. She held it between them so he could see. 

For a moment, Athos couldn't breathe.

Three little pills, in the corner of a plastic baggie. His eyes swept over them, cataloguing them instantly. He knew their soothing pastel-and-white rounded shapes, knew how they'd taste, and his mouth went dry.

"Your favorite cocktail," she said, her voice low and intimate. It swept over him, tugging at him like the tide. 

He wanted them. Oh, he fucking _wanted_ them. He wouldn't have to worry anymore. Not about the team, or classes, or Porthos and Aramis and d'Artagnan. They'd make everything so much easier. 

_And you'd drown again,_ a nagging voice in his head that probably hadn't existed before he met Aramis and Porthos said softly. _You spent all that time learning not to need them, and now she's back and you're just going to do it all over again?_

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

"No," he ground out, turning his head away. "Not anymore."

"Shame," Anne said easily. Her hand slid down, down his side, down his back, and into his back pocket. When she brought it back up to his cheek, the baggie was gone. "Sure you don't want to stay?"

Athos closed his eyes. Breathed. "I need to look after my _little brother,"_ he said, and he heard her breath hiss between her teeth.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and it _ached,_ to see her with that soft, sweet high, and not join her. "If you ever, _ever_ go near him again," Athos said, "I will tell everyone what you did."

"Your word against mine, my darling," Anne said, stroking her fingers over his chin. "And you don't have the best track record. But don't worry, I'll stay away from your little puppy--unless he comes to me first." 

Athos looked steadily at her, looking into her eyes until it didn't hurt, until it wasn't sharp and new pain, but a dull, steady ache. "Fuck you, Anne," he said, and pushed past her.

He walked faster and faster down the hall, barely stopping himself from running. He made himself take the stairs again, to make his breathing even out, and make his hands stopped shaking. He strode through the lobby, waving an apology to the girls on the couch, and pushed open the door with more force than he'd intended, welcoming the slap of cold air on his face.

For a brief, irrational second, he was afraid that they wouldn't be there.

Then Aramis looked up sharply, Porthos half-rising from his crouch beside d'Artagnan, and Athos waved him back down, his relief so strong it could choke him. "Here," he said, kneeling in front of d'Artagnan, and he held out his hard-won prize.

"Thanks," d'Artagnan said, smiling blearily at his jacket. He already looked and sounded a little better, and Athos was glad the clean air had helped a bit. "I'm sorry for dragging you all out here," he said, as Aramis gently fed his arm through the sleeve. "I should have been more careful."

"It's not your fault," Athos sighed. D'Artagnan looked so fucking _young_ in the dark. Thomas would be as old as him now, he realized. 

That sudden thought made tears ache behind his eyes the way the entire conversation with Anne hadn't, and Athos closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself. "D'Artagnan, did you take a drink from a tall girl with long, dark curly hair?"

It took a moment for d'Artagnan to think about it, while Porthos helped him into the other sleeve of his jacket. "Yeah," d'Artagnan said slowly. "She was pretty, she--" He blinked at Athos, and then a pained look came over his face. "She was your ex, wasn't she?"

Athos nodded shortly, and d'Artagnan groaned. He leaned forward and Athos reached up to catch him, startled. D'Artagnan's weight carried him down until his head rested on Athos' shoulder, and d'Artagnan's arms came up to embrace him. "I'm really sorry, Athos," he mumbled. "I really am. I didn't mean to do that to you."

Athos sighed, refusing to meet Aramis and Porthos' gazes. "I should be apologizing to you," he said, putting one arm around d'Artagnan's back. "She's trying to get back at me."

"I shouldn't have talked to her in the first place," d'Artagnan said, sitting back, and he took Athos' face in his hands with the earnestness of the intoxicated. "I won't ever talk to her again, Athos, I promise."

Athos ran a hand over d'Artagnan's wild, sweaty hair. "Thank you, d'Artagnan," he said. It was easier than arguing.

D'Artagnan smiled at him, with that painfully sweet and innocent smile, looking at Athos like he was everything. 

Just the way Thomas had looked at him, he thought, and a pulse of grief hit him just under his ribs, making his eyes burn and his throat clench.

Athos swallowed, blinking hard, and pulled d'Artagnan into another short, fierce hug. No one was going to touch his little brother. Never again.

"I think," Aramis said gently, "we should get you home, d'Artagnan." There was an unbearable compassion in the look he flashed Athos, and Athos could only return it for a moment before he had to look away.

D'Artagnan nodded, but made no move to stand. "You're going to have to report this, aren't you, Athos?" he asked, sounding defeated.

Porthos and Aramis looked sharply at him, and Athos blinked. 

Oh. Right. He was an RA. He did have an obligation to report things like this. 

His stomach twisted into knots at the thought of explaining it all-- _there was a party with drugs, and I was too chickenshit to meet anyone's gaze, and my ex-girlfriend who killed my brother tried to dose my new surrogate one--_ Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his chest and he crushed it ruthlessly back down.

"I think," he said slowly, "that we can keep this one between us. Just this once."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look, but didn't say anything. D'Artagnan just looked relieved. "Thank you," he sighed, reaching up to hold onto Athos again. "Just us means--just, just the four of us, right? Not Constance?"

"You've been kinda fixated on her all night," Porthos said, softening the tease with a smile.

D'Artagnan nodded and sighed. "I just don't--don't want her to hear about this. She won't--she wouldn't--y'know?" 

They all nodded, and d'Artagnan buried his face in his hands, groaning. 

"Guys," he said helplessly, looking up, "guys, I love her, I love her so much."

Athos knew. He'd known all along, of course. But if he'd known, why did it suddenly ache so badly to hear?

D'Artagnan kept going, oblivious to Athos' sudden pain--the words were pouring out, like he couldn't stop them once he'd started, and Athos was so sympathetic to that feeling that he couldn't bring himself to object. "She's so beautiful and smart, she's kind and she's funny and she does everything so well, she cares about people so much--and I care about _her,_ I just want her to be happy, I--"

His face turned bright red as his mind caught up to his words, and he closed his mouth, staring down at his knees. "Nevermind," he said softly. "I didn't mean to say all that, just...nevermind."

Aramis rested his cheek against d'Artagnan's hair. "Oh, my sweet little boy," he sighed. 

"I promise we won't tell," Porthos said soothingly, rubbing his hand over d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Now we should really get you home, kiddo."

Athos nodded silent agreement, his throat tight. _I just want her to be happy._

He knew how that felt. 

They helped d'Artagnan to his feet, and Athos kept a very careful eye on him as they led him down the steps. He was already seeming more sober, his youthful metabolism protecting him better than Athos had. Aramis and Porthos each kept an arm around him, and Athos stayed close, in case anyone tripped.

"Do you want me to call in the party?" Porthos asked him quietly, when they'd just started the climb up the hill to Alexander. "I'll just tell them I was there and they'd put bags over the smoke alarm, that should be enough."

Athos looked gratefully at him. Porthos' eyes were knowing--he could tell that _something_ had badly shaken Athos, and even if he didn't know exactly what, he was going to try to make it easier for him. "I'd appreciate that," he said quietly, hoping Porthos would do his genuinely-psychic thing again and understand just how much it really did mean that Athos wouldn't have to relieve any of it.

Porthos smiled at him, that soft half-grin that made Athos' heart flip in his chest, and Athos smiled back.

Then he cleared his throat and remembered something. "D'Artagnan, your roommate went home this weekend, didn't he?"

D'Artagnan nodded, scrubbing a sleepy hand over his face. "Yeah, his kid sister had a band recital or something."

"Do you want to sleep in my room?" Athos asked. "Just so one of us can keep an eye on you?"

D'Artagnan's face lit up, and he nodded. "That'd be--that'd be really nice of you, thank you."

Athos shrugged one shoulder. "You did it for me." He couldn't exactly pretend it wasn't in his own self-interest, to keep d'Artagnan close so he could watch him breathing all night--it'd keep the nightmares away.

"You're such a softie, Athos," Aramis said fondly, and Athos barely choked down the sarcastic laugh that wanted to escape.

They were in the elevator before Athos realized.

"Give me a second to move the laptop and desk chair," he said when the doors opened on their floor, his heart suddenly pounding. "We'll have a hard time getting him into bed with those in the way."

Aramis nodded. "Good plan. D'Artagnan, let's get you washed up before putting you to bed, okay?" 

D'Artagnan nodded his assent, and Aramis and Porthos helped him into the bathroom. Athos went the other way, hurrying down the hall to his room, and his quick steps nearly turned into running before he stopped himself.

He slipped into his room and closed his laptop, setting it on his desk, and pushed his desk chair back where it was supposed to be.

Then, in the aching solitude of his room, he reached into his back pocket.

His fingers hit slick plastic, and his heart nearly stopped. 

When he pulled out the baggie, his hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it. His heart hammered uncomfortably in his throat, his head swam with a sudden adrenaline spike, and all he could see were those three little pills, vibrating back and forth with the tremble in his fingers.

He should throw them out. He knew that. Every rational part of his brain told him that.

The fucking addict's hindbrain whispered _but what if you need them?_

He could dry-swallow all three of them now and not have to think about d'Artagnan, or Thomas, or the mess with Aramis and Porthos. Or Anne.

He heard footsteps in the hall, the soft rumble of Porthos' voice, and panic made the edges of his vision gray. They couldn't walk in and see him holding this.

_Throw them out, throw them out, throw them out--_

Athos jerked open his top desk drawer and shoved the baggie into the very back, then slammed the drawer shut and sat down on his bed.

Oh, he was such a fucking _coward._

The door opened, and if Aramis' soft smile hadn't been the first thing he'd seen, Athos would have told them everything.

But he loved Aramis too much to wipe that smile off his face.

"Come on in," he said, bending down to kick off his shoes, and as the others stripped off their coats and gently sat d'Artagnan down on the bed, Athos cursed himself for a fool in every language he knew.

Porthos settled onto the beanbag opposite the bed, because he wouldn't fit if the other three were on the bed, and Athos felt Porthos' eyes on him. 

He couldn't look up and meet his gaze. 

"Lie down on your side," Aramis told d'Artagnan, ruffling the boy's hair, "just in case you get sick in the night. I'll be behind you, okay?" D'Artagnan nodded, and Aramis stretched out next to the wall and gently guided d'Artagnan to lie down.

Athos lay back, motioning d'Artagnan closer, and when d'Artagnan tentatively rested his head on Athos' shoulder, something seemed to click. Like this, Athos could feel him breathing, could feel the pulse of d'Artagnan's heart, and he would know, all night, that d'Artagnan was alive. 

"Get some sleep, little brother," he said softly, and d'Artagnan huffed out a soft sigh and relaxed against him. 

D'Artagnan was asleep in moments, his breath turning slow and rhythmic, and Athos closed his eyes.

"Athos?" Aramis said softly. 

He swallowed. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

Athos forced himself to breathe before answering. Then he opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly. Aramis was looking at him over d'Artagnan's head, and his eyes were soft, free of judgment. He hadn't taken off his makeup, Athos realized, and the things he'd done to his face, the soft-hard lines, made him look almost surreally lovely at this angle, in this light. Angelic.

Athos nodded, his throat too tight to speak. "It was touch and go for a minute there," he said quietly, so he wouldn't wake d'Artagnan. 

"Bad memories?" Porthos asked, his voice just as soft as theirs. 

Athos closed his eyes again. What could he possibly say?

"Can I hazard a guess?" Aramis asked, and his arm slipped around d'Artagnan to find Athos' hand. 

Athos squeezed it. A strange relief flooded his chest. Maybe they'd guess. Maybe he wouldn't have to say.

"Was it your brother?" Aramis asked softly, and Athos let out a shuddering breath.

He'd expected them to ask about him. But this was a relief in its own way.

"He overdosed," Athos told them.

It was the first time he'd said it out loud in three and a half years. 

Aramis squeezed his hand, gentle but _present,_ and Athos focused on the feeling to keep himself from disappearing down the tunnel of his own memories. Aramis was here. Athos was here, too.

"I'm so sorry, darling," Aramis whispered. 

Athos swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he said after a moment, when he was sure he could speak without his voice breaking.

Porthos let out his breath on the other side of the room, and Athos ached to have him close. Porthos' voice was the next best thing, though, and when he spoke, it was everything Athos needed. "You were brave tonight, Athos," he said softly. 

Athos swallowed down another wave of tears and nodded helplessly, accepting it.

"Shh," Aramis whispered, stroking Athos' hand. "D'Artagnan's going to be just fine, and we're all here."

Athos breathed, felt d'Artagnan breathe, too, and nodded again.

"Just sleep," Aramis breathed, his fingers tracing gently over the back of Athos' hand. Athos focused on the motion, the soft back-and-forth of Aramis' fingertips and the gentle rise and fall of d'Artagnan's chest, and he felt himself slipping closer and closer to sleep.

Just before he drifted off, he thought he heard Aramis whisper something else, but he was too far gone to understand.

 _I should tell him,_ he thought, not sure if he meant the pills or his love, but knowing he needed to tell Aramis _something._ Aramis had seemed so much easier tonight, so much closer to the both of them, and maybe...maybe it would be all right to tell him. Maybe things would be okay.

 _Soon,_ his hazy thoughts decided, and Athos fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. That was a heavy one. Next time: Halloween. As always, come and find me [on tumbr](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) if you'd like.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT LIVES. Thank you all so much for your patience--I hope this long one is a good reward!
> 
> WARNINGS in this chapter for mentions of prescription drug abuse, and an off-screen scene of dubious consent that culminates in borderline sexual assault (it's stopped before anything happens, but the intent is there). There's nothing explicit, but it's still assault, so if that triggers, proceed with caution.

Brunch the next morning was slightly awkward, since they'd sworn not to give Constance the exact details, but also couldn't conceal the fact that d'Artagnan was obviously, desperately hungover. There were only so many things that friendship could fix, after all.

Thankfully, Constance's "I told you so" instincts were beating out her concerned ones, and she spent most of their meal looking significantly at their miserable friend and clicking her tongue in irritation.

"I heard that party got busted," she told him, when it took him four tries to spear a piece of penne with his fork. "You're lucky you weren't there when it was."

"Uh-huh," d'Artagnan said vaguely. He had the hood up on his Dumas sweatshirt, and he was not objecting to the numerous glasses of orange juice and soda water Aramis kept setting in front of him.

"She's only scolding because she cares," Porthos said, carefully avoiding Athos and Aramis' gazes. The three of them had a tendency to look horribly guilty if they made eye contact when they were attempting to lie directly about something (Aramis almost always laughed). 

"Well," Constance said, turning slightly pink, "and because it would reflect on me as his first-year mentor, too."

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan said, looking up at her and managing a smile through his haze of misery. _True love,_ Athos thought dryly. "Believe me, it'll never happen again."

Constance's harsh look softened slightly. "Well. Good."

Aramis very studiously looked at his French toast, and Athos could see him chewing his cheek to avoid smiling. 

Constance pointed her fork at Athos, then, and her face turned serious. "Are you free after brunch today? We really need to talk about Halloween."

Athos blinked at her. 

"Oh," he said, as it came crashing back into his head. "Yes."

Constance glowered at him. "You forgot."

Athos gave her a look. "I have had a lot on my mind, Constance."

Aramis looked between them, his eyebrows slanting down at the corners and the corners of his mouth drooping. "You have Halloween plans?"

"We're planning the dorm Halloween party," Constance said, arching an eyebrow at him. "Why do you look like we kicked your puppy?"

"We were gonna go to BC," Aramis said, looking down at his plate. "There's a huge costume party at the frats there. But the dorm party's important, forget I said anything."

"You gotta quit double-booking yourself," Porthos told Athos, giving him a wry smile, and Athos winced. 

"I'm sorry," he said, not sure to whom he was apologizing, but sure he needed to say something.

Constance rolled her eyes and picked up her tray. "Come on, you."

Athos nodded goodbye to the others and followed her. He felt awful--not only for getting Aramis' hopes up about going, but for telling Constance he'd help her plan and completely forgetting.

"What has gotten into you lately?" Constance said without preamble as they bused their trays, turning to face him. "You've never forgotten about something like this."

"I have a lot on my mind, Constance," he sighed, dumping his cup in the bucket and putting it on the conveyor belt. 

She gave him a narrow look, then glanced around to make sure there was no one else in the dish return line. "And the party last night?" she asked in a low tone. "The one you didn't call in?"

Athos grimaced. "Porthos did it for me," he said, knowing how inadequate it was even as it left his mouth.

Constance gave him a look. "And d'Artagnan? He is a _mess,_ Athos, and if you were there--"

Athos sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, turning away. "I _know,_ Constance, believe me."

She studied him for a long minute, then a decision settled in her face. "Come on," she said, and slipped her arm in his. "Let's go."

Athos knew better than to argue.

\- -

"Isn't this better?" Constance asked, and Athos could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yes," he said truthfully, opening his eyes to look at the water. "It is."

She'd dragged him unceremoniously down to the lakeshore. It was a lovely day, crisp and clear, and the boathouse was empty and the lake was full. Students sat clustered on the grass leading down to the water, enjoying the last sun of the season, and it was the perfect number of people for them to talk without being overheard. 

"Can you tell me any of it, Athos?" Constance asked quietly, looking down at him. She sat propped up on her elbows, and Athos lay flat on his back. He had to squint against the bright sky to look up at her--her hair was very red in the sunlight, and squinting felt like the appropriate way to look up at Constance. She was very much a goddess. "I don't want you to feel pressured, or anything," she went on, "if it's something you don't think you can talk about, but--"

"Are they going to fire me?" he asked suddenly, her concern suddenly connecting something in his brain. "As an RA?"

Constance winced. "You did miss the last house council."

"So you talked about me," he prompted her.

Constance sighed, wrapping her fingers in the grass and tugging on it. "A bit," she admitted. "But only because we're worried. You used to be one of the best RAs, Athos, and now you barely talk to any of us, you haven't done anything for Res Life all semester--and that's not counting all the things I know that I haven't told them."

She bit her lip, her brow knitting, and Athos hated himself for putting her in this position. "I'm so sorry," he said, not knowing what else he could say that would even come close to apologizing enough. 

"I just wish you'd tell me why," she said, looking down at him. "We're friends, Athos--can't you tell me what you tell them?"

Athos swallowed, knowing she meant Aramis and Porthos. The question hung cold in his chest. "I haven't even told them," he said, and the truth of that cut him worse than her question did.

Constance frowned, then lay down beside him, curling onto her side to face him. "Athos, I don't want you to lose everything because you're trying to carry this on your own," she said softly.

Athos closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the grass. It was still a little damp with dew, and the coolness felt good on his skin. "I'm backsliding," he said, his voice quiet, just for her.

It felt awful to say, but it was the closest thing to truth he could manage. He'd felt fine last year--better than he'd ever felt. He was functional, he had his friends--he loved being on the fencing team, he liked what he was studying, he liked being an RA. He'd been a person people could come to--he'd been _good_ at what he did. 

And then Anne came crashing back into his life, and look where he was now. He was drinking too much again, lying and sneaking and getting his friends hurt.

He was hoarding pills in the back of his fucking desk drawer.

Constance's hand touched his lightly, and Athos opened his eyes and looked at her.

"I didn't think it needed saying," she said. "But you know I'm not going to think any less of you for having shit in your past."

One corner of his mouth tugged up. "That's sweet of you to say."

"And that's bullshit deflecting," she snapped, her fire always close to the surface. "Athos, for fuck's sake--it's not like anyone's offering you magic absolution, which we know you wouldn't take _anyway._ We just want to know what the fuck's going on with you. Because we _care_ about you."

Athos stared at her hand covering his for a very long time. Around them, he could hear people laughing and talking--the splash of oars in the water as people paddled kayaks around the shore, the soft gurgling glide of canoes and sailboats, even the occasional rubbery squawk of an inflatable raft. 

"People were stoned at the party last night," he said at last. "Someone slipped d'Artagnan a pill--that was what made him so sick." He took a breath. _Say it, coward, say it._ "And when I say someone, I mean Anne."

Constance inhaled sharply. "Your ex, Anne?"

He nodded.

"That's why you didn't call it in," she said slowly. "Because it was her?"

He nodded again, simultaneously praying that she would (and hoping against hope that she wouldn't) put the rest together.

Constance drew a breath, then let it out slowly. Athos felt the grass between them shiver against his hand. "What does people being stoned have to do with it?" she asked.

God, she sounded so _gentle._ He could hardly stand it.

"That's what we used to do together," he said. There was a strange release in saying it out loud. "Anne and I."

He closed his eyes, then. He didn't want to watch her face change--watch her surprise turn inevitably to pity or disgust. It would. It had to. 

And even just saying _getting stoned_ felt inadequate. Far better to let her think it was just some stoner problem, that he'd gotten a little too much into chasing a high, instead of the full truth, of everything it had become. She'd still be disappointed, of course, but she wouldn't know the worst of it.

But Constance's voice was only quiet, devoid of any more recognizable tone, when she spoke again. "The others don't know, do they?"

Athos shook his head. If he had a choice, none of them ever would, but--she probably didn't want to hear that. 

"Good," Constance said.

Athos' heart sank. For a moment, he wondered if the swooping lurch in his chest was just disappointment or actual nausea. He knew she was right. No one _should_ know.

And then she went on. "Because if they knew you used to have a drug problem and still enabled your drinking as much as they do, I would fucking _murder_ them."

Athos' eyes flew open.

Constance's face was soft, even irritated as he could see she was. "Why wouldn't you just _tell_ us that was what it was?"

He blinked at her. He was speechless. Literally. Fucking speechless. 

How could she be so calm about it? It was _awful,_ the most shameful thing in his life--how could she treat it like just some ordinary thing? Why would he _ever_ have told them he used to have less than no control over himself, over his own life?

"I don't talk about it," he said finally. "I never have."

Constance sighed, and she squeezed his hand, the pressure of her fingers sharp and _real._ "We'd never think less of you for trying to avoid something that really messed you up. I know you're ashamed because I know _you,_ but they're not going to be."

Athos' eyes fell shut again, and he had to remind himself to breathe around the helter-skelter pulse of his heart. "I couldn't stand it if they knew," he said, the words shoving their way up his chest, jostling in his throat to get out first. "I _couldn't."_

"Well, I'm not going to tell them," Constance said, sounding slightly vexed. _"You_ should, but I won't."

Athos shook his head. He couldn't think of anything to say. He just knew--no. "I didn't plan on any of this happening," he said dully. 

Constance's hand on his turned gentle, and she tapped her thumb lightly against his. He opened his eyes to find her smiling wryly at him, one corner of her mouth pulling up. "I hear junior year's always shitty," she said.

Athos ducked his head, the smile coming to his face unbidden. "So I've been told."

"And I'm not letting you get out of planning the dorm Halloween party," she said matter-of-factly. "You promised, after all."

"I know," Athos said instantly, looking up at her, his heart starting to race again. "I know, I'm sorry, I'll do the whole thing if you want, Aramis' sad dog eyes don't matter--"

Constance rolled her eyes. "Don't be an idiot. We'll do it together."

His panicky heartbeat eased, and Athos couldn't believe they were just talking about normal things again. She'd taken his confession at face value and moved on. She wasn't going to press him for the details; she wasn't going to _make_ him tell Aramis and Porthos. And she still wanted to work with him.

"Thank you," he said, and when Constance met his eyes, he could tell she knew he meant for more than just abandoning him to party planning.

She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, but there was something sad in her face. "Aramis won't be happy, will he?"

Athos' stomach squirmed uncomfortably. "He really wanted to get off campus for Halloween," he said as a half-hearted answer. He didn't really want to think about the way Aramis' face would dim when Athos told him he'd have to stay on campus.

Constance frowned sympathetically. "Is he getting restless again?"

Athos wobbled his hand back and forth in a noncommittal gesture. "I don't think it's as bad as it got last year--" 

Constance covered her face with her free hand in memory, groaning, and Athos sighed in agreement. Aramis' late fall cabin fever last year had led to a series of terrible decisions, culminating in an absolutely wretched midnight bender through Cambridge. Rubbing Aramis' back as he puked in a trash can in Central Square, with Porthos collapsed on a park bench beside them, had sent Athos a little too vividly back to his high school days. He would do nearly anything to stop something like that from happening again.

"But he has been a little off the past week," Athos finished, and Constance nodded, biting her lip.

"Well," she said after a moment's thought, her voice assuming a severe-sounding tone, "I _suppose_ you can just help with the planning and not have to be there. Rin from the first floor hasn't done anything for Res Life this year either, and I know for a fact she doesn't have as good an excuse as you do."

Athos shook his head in amazement. "You are too good a person, Constance."

"Don't get me wrong," she said as she pushed herself to a sitting position, "you're going to have to do almost everything. You are the only one of us with a car, after all."

Athos nodded in acceptance, sitting up as well. For all that she was about to dump a metric ton of responsibilities on him, he felt somehow lighter. He hadn't irrevocably fucked _everything_ in his life, it seemed; not yet, at any rate.

Constance went on, taking a notebook out of her purse and flipping it open to a page that had "Res Life" scribbled at the top. "But if all the setup's done, I don't see why you can't escape with the others for a night. For Aramis' sake, if nothing else."

Athos gazed steadily at her. Then, on sheer impulse, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Constance turned bright red, her hair falling in front of her face, and she couldn't quite hide her pleased smile in the irritated look she flashed him. "You're getting as bad as he is," she said loftily, then clicked her pen into action. "All right. Decorations. What are we thinking?"

They spent an hour sitting on the lakeshore, planning out the minutiae of throwing a party for people who would much rather be somewhere else getting drunk ("Well, we have to have _some_ kind of food, obviously"). It always surprised Athos how much he actually enjoyed things like this--not with the same delighted people-pleasing abandon Aramis would have, but with the satisfaction of knowing that his people would be looked after.

When they finally trudged back to the dorm, both slightly frazzled but satisfied with the plan, Athos looked at the clock above the dining hall doors and made a decision. "I'll see you at dinner," he told her, and ducked into the dining hall. He gathered up a bowl of apples and other snacks, filling a few cereal bowls with Lucky Charms and scooping Goldfish from the salad bar into cups. He begged a fresh batch of french fries from Serge, then stole a tray and carried all of it back up to his room. 

He dug out his doorstop from the pile of coasts in which it had been buried and propped his door open, after the requisite cursory tidying of his room. He set the tray of snacks on top of his refrigerator, settled into his desk chair, and sent an email to his floor. 

_Your absentee RA apologizes, and will be having open office hours until dinner, for anything you need._

He'd been neglecting this for far too long. 

The scent of french fries drew more people than the email did at first, but Athos was glad to see them, all the same. Some of his first years were still shy around him, and Athos enjoyed the opportunity to just make eye contact--and once that was done, some of them even stayed to talk. He helped a pair who were having some awkwardness about each others' visitors ("If you ever need to crash on a floor, mine is open, but if you just set some boundaries--"), talked down one of his nervous sophomores from calling off her spring semester abroad ("Remember when we talked about this last year, being away from your parents was a pro, not a con"), and put out a few small fires before they had the chance to burn the building down around their ears ("I will send everyone an email about cleaning hair out of the drains, I promise"). 

And there were, of course, other visitors. 

"Those are not for you," he said automatically, glancing up from his laptop, when Porthos and Aramis came drifting in for the food.

Aramis snagged a fry from the tray anyway, waggling his eyebrows at him. He was smiling, though, and Athos felt inexplicably calmed to see that. 

"Did Constance read you the riot act?" Porthos asked, grinning as he settled down on Athos' bed.

Athos shrugged one shoulder. "In a manner of speaking," he admitted. "It was more a wake-up call. And we needed to plan the party."

Aramis made an 'ah' face, and his smile faded glumly. "So no Halloween at BC?"

Athos tilted his head. "I didn't say that."

Porthos and Aramis both brightened instantly, and Aramis sat down beside Porthos, beaming at him. "Go on?"

"I'm doing all the setup, so we can still head off-campus."

Aramis punched the air, and Porthos grinned at him. Aramis immediately launched into excited planning. "All right, so it's a costume party, yeah? I was thinking we'd do something all together--"

"Aramis," Athos cut him off, "I am going to be planning an entire party. I do not have time to get caught up in schemes with you. Just tell me what to wear, and I will."

A beatific smile spread over Aramis' face, and Athos pointed to Porthos. "But don't give him _carte blanche,_ please, for all our sakes."

"I will protect our dignity," Porthos promised, grinning.

"I love the way you pronounce French words in actual French," Aramis declared, apropos of nothing. 

Athos was thankfully spared needing to come up with an answer to _that_ by d'Artagnan sticking his head in the door. "Hey, Athos, I-- Oh, never mind, you're already busy--"

"No, I am not," Athos said, kicking Aramis' leg from where he sat in his desk chair. "You two, get out. These office hours are for residents, not best friends."

"We _are_ your residents, too," Aramis pointed out, grinning, as Porthos hooked an arm around him and hauled him off the bed.

"We'll see you at dinner," Porthos called over his shoulder, and he ruffled d'Artagnan's hair as the two of them passed him. 

Athos closed his laptop and gestured to the snack tray. "Eat. Sit. What's up?"

"Double major form," d'Artagnan said through a mouthful of Lucky Charms, dropping his long, lanky form onto Athos' bed. "They want it by the end of the semester."

Athos shrugged. "It's only October--you've got plenty of time."

D'Artagnan grimaced. "I know, but if I want to study abroad--"

"You don't," Athos reminded him as gently as he could. "You have said many times you think it's just too much to try and do, with two majors."

D'Artagnan looked a little wild around the eyes. "I know, but what if I change my mind?"

Athos very clearly recognized the look of panic on his young friend's face. It was the face of someone who had been told all his life that he could do anything, and in consequence, felt he needed to do _everything._ "If you change your mind, you will have plenty of opportunities to take a class abroad over winter or summer break."

D'Artagnan nodded, staring flatly off into the middle distance, but the look of terror on his face was gradually diminishing. "Okay," he said, slowly nodding. "Yeah, you're right." 

Athos gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know," he said dryly. "You have to double major and do a year abroad, or you're letting everyone down." 

D'Artagnan gave a shaky laugh, and he reached for one of the apples on the tray. "Yeah," he said ruefully, rolling the piece of fruit between his hands. "My mom would never, ever pressure me to do so much, but--"

"You feel like you have to," Athos finished, remembering the quiet, understated panic attack he'd had this same time his first year. Porthos had found him curled in a ball on the common room couch, breathing too quickly and staring at the course catalog like it was the devil incarnate. He couldn't even unwind himself enough to go back to their room and break down in private. Aramis had brought dinner upstairs for them, and they'd gently talked him down from the edge.

He'd been so embarrassed, afterward. They'd barely known him four months. But Porthos shrugged easily when he tried to apologize, and hooked an arm around his neck, tugging him in close until their heads butted together. "You think you're the only first year having a fucking nervous break down, come to the sociology lounge with me sometime."

Athos smiled at the memory, and he moved to sit on his bed beside d'Artagnan. "Believe me," he said, "when I say I know exactly what you're going through."

D'Artagnan smiled shakily at him. "Yeah?" 

Athos nodded. "Ask Porthos and Aramis about our first year some time. They can tell you exactly how many times I kept them up with long, drunk ramblings about failing my family legacy."

D'Artagnan grinned at him. "Hence, the French major?" 

Athos rolled his eyes. "Even so. Education for me, French for them." He gave d'Artagnan a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "So?"

D'Artagnan considered it. "Business for them," he said. "Well, for all of us."

"The farm?"

He nodded. "I can't be the one who lets it go under." He pushed his hair back from his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and he looked much, much older than eighteen in that moment.

"And for you?" Athos prompted.

He thought about it. "English," d'Artagnan said finally, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.

Athos smiled at him. "See how easy it is?"

D'Artagnan laughed. He tossed his apple into the air, caught it, and laughed again. "Yeah," he said, looking much brighter, easier. "Yeah, it's not that hard, really."

"Good." Athos watched d'Artagnan take a bite of his apple, and his chest tightened with a surge of affection for the younger man. "You are feeling better, aren't you?" he asked, after a glance at the door to make sure no one else was coming. 

D'Artagnan nodded, his face sobering. "Yeah. Thanks again," he said. "Now that I'm not stoned, y'know, I felt like I should say it for real."

Athos sighed. He leaned back against his pillow, feeling very tired, all of a sudden. "It's not a problem," he said. It surprised him a little to realize he still really did mean that, even after the train wreck that had ensued because of it. 

D'Artagnan looked closely at him. "It's fine if it _is_ ," he said. "You know, if there are some things you just can't deal with, it's okay."

It was so reminiscent of his earlier conversation with Constance that Athos nearly laughed. He rolled the edge of his duvet between his fingers. "Not if you're me." He had too many people to take care of, too many responsibilities. He needed to be able to handle things without his own baggage getting in the way.

His friend made a face. "That isn't fair. You wouldn't ask, I dunno, Aramis to deal with someone getting gay-bashed." Athos looked up sharply, and d'Artagnan shrugged one shoulder--not in dismissal, but in a _that's how it is_ sort of acknowledgement. "That shit triggers him like crazy," he pointed out. "I don't see why you don't get the same consideration.

Athos opened his mouth, then closed it.

He'd never wanted to think of himself as someone who needed protecting--someone who couldn't handle whatever was thrown at him. But he'd been through two summers of RA training, hell, had taught other people about safe spaces and trigger warnings, things like that--he knew, intellectually, that having a some serious trauma in his background didn't make him weak or cowardly, or that it'd mean he couldn't take care of himself. He'd never think that about a friend, or one of his his teammates, or one of his residents.

Emotionally accepting that that applied to him, too, was just incredibly difficult.

"Getting a little off-kilter when you're suddenly confronted with the worse memories of your life is totally normal, Athos," d'Artagnan assured him, flashing him a sympathetic smile. "I still--" His voice wavered, and d'Artagnan broke off. He swallowed, then tried again. "I still get really sad when something reminds me of my dad."

For the second time in as many days, Athos was painfully aware of the _kinship_ he felt with this boy. "When?" he asked.

D'Artagnan sighed, his fingers moving slowly over the deep red skin of his apple. "It'll be a year in January," he said, his voice quiet. "I think I'm through the worst of it--my high school graduation was just, I mean, I was a fucking mess--but every now and then, something will just..." He trailed off, his soft brown eyes shiny in the light from the window.

"Hit you," Athos supplied. 

"Yeah," d'Artagnan agreed softly.

They sat in silence for a moment, then d'Artagnan said quietly, "I think he'd be proud of me, though. College was really important to him--mom went, but no one in his family had, so..."

"He would be," Athos said, and d'Artagnan shrugged one shoulder. Athos nudged him, and arched an eyebrow when d'Artagnan looked up. "What about me says 'empty compliments' to you, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan managed a smile. "Right."

"I'm sure he would be," Athos told him. He'd never been more serious in his life. D'Artagnan was well-liked, a great addition to the fencing team, and Athos lived in constant amazement that this boy looked up to him. Who wouldn't be proud of him? "I'm sure he'd be proud of you, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan smiled and leaned his shoulder against Athos', a friendly motion of thanks, of comfort. "I think your brother would be proud of you, too."

Athos' mind went blank.

_Why?_

"I haven't done much worthy of pride,' he said, when he realized d'Artagnan was looking at him.

"I don't think so," d'Artagnan said casually--and that made it all the worse, that he said it so nonchalantly, making it clear that thought lived in the place of absolute truth in his head. "You're a good captain, you're a good RA, and you're a good friend. And you're not with someone awful anymore," he added, startling a suspiciously thick-sounding laugh from Athos.

"True," he said. He swallowed around the tightness in his throat, wondering what, exactly, Thomas would say about the situation he was in right now. 

_She's got her hooks in you again,_ he could almost hear his brother saying regretfully, and Athos didn't dare look at his desk drawer. Yes, she did. He wondered if Thomas would really be so forgiving, for him so easily allowing the woman who'd killed him to get a hold over him again, for not coming clean to his friends.

They deserved better. Thomas deserved better.

"Want to go down for dinner?" d'Artagnan suggested.

Athos seized on the topic change like a drowning man grabbing at flotsam. "Yes, let's."

 _Having genuine issues doesn't meant you aren't also a coward,_ he heard Thomas calling, his voice coming from the desk drawer. Athos picked up the tray of snacks and kicked the doorstop back into the corner, resolutely not looking behind himself as he followed d'Artagnan downstairs.

\- -

He did nothing but schoolwork, fencing, and party preparation in the run-up to Halloween. He got up early and exhausted himself so he'd fall asleep just as quickly; if he had something to do, and if he could sleep on his own, he wouldn't think about needing the pills. It was a good plan, and it'd all be worth it when he had a few hours alone with Porthos and Aramis, off campus, just the three of them. He just needed to make it until then.

The wrench in the plan came the night he fell asleep on Aramis in the common room. It had been a very long day--instead of dozing in the afternoon between classes, as he usually did, he'd had to run to the store in town for party supplies. Then in his French class, Madame Perrault had made them watch and take notes on a new French film that was getting early Oscar buzz. It had beautiful music, dramatic cinematography, and was desperately, _desperately_ boring. He and Ninon had passed notes in a desperate attempt to keep each other awake, but it had only succeeded in keeping him in a drowsy state of semi-consciousness. He'd been out of it for the rest of the day. 

And now, sitting in the common room with Aramis and Porthos, he'd been sleepier than ever. They'd been doing their own homework, and Aramis had tugged him over to get an opinion on Halloween costume ideas. Athos had curled up on the couch beside him, leaning on his shoulder to scroll through the inspiration Aramis had collected (or, as Porthos put it, "I cannot believe you made a fucking Pinterest for this"). Athos had somehow settled perfectly between Aramis' shoulder and the couch cushions, and Aramis sounded so excited, and Aramis smelled so _good_ \--

Somewhere between firmly shooting down the idea of cowboys and now, Athos must have fallen asleep. Because as he drowsily became aware of the world around him again, he realized he was slumped sideways against a sturdy form. A small point of warmth pressed gently against the small of his back, rubbing in steady, easy circles. Something firm and fabric-covered was under his head, and when it moved--

"You'll wake him," he heard Porthos say quietly.

"I just want to get him a pillow," Aramis whispered back. "My shoulder can't be that comfortable." 

It took him a moment to process the words. Then Athos came awake all at once.

"Oh, shit," he said, startling up, and Aramis jumped in surprise. "Shit, I'm sorry--"

"It's okay," Aramis half-laughed, and the pressure on Athos' back abruptly disappeared. "You were dozing off anyway." Aramis shifted slightly and drew his arm back from where Athos had pinned it, and Athos stared at Aramis' hands on his keyboard before he realized Aramis had been stroking his back--just moving his thumb back and forth over the bumps of Athos' spine.

Goosebumps prickled down his arms, and Athos pulled them up behind his head to hide his reaction in a stretch. His neck had cramped from the way he'd been laying on Aramis. "Sorry," he said again, not sure of what else to do. It was a dead fucking giveaway, wasn't it, falling asleep on him? 

"Stop apologizing," Aramis said, flashing him a grin. "You've been running yourself off your feet for days. "I'm happy to surrender my body for nap purposes."

Athos, mid-yawn, nearly swallowed his tongue. He glanced over at Porthos and saw an answering flush rise in his friend's cheeks, and the two of them looked hastily away from each other.

"You can't just say shit like that, Aramis," Porthos sighed, running a hand over his face in bewilderment.

Aramis looked up from his laptop and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "What, 'surrender my body?'" he asked teasingly.

"Yes," Athos said. He shifted slightly away, until he wasn't _entirely_ invading Aramis' personal space. His skin prickled, warm and uncomfortable, at the memory of Aramis' hand moving on him, Aramis' shoulder underneath his head. He was still in a strange, sleepy headspace, and before he'd really thought about it, he could hear words coming out of his mouth and couldn't stop them. "If you offer, we may just decide to take possession."

Aramis looked sharply at him, his brown eyes very wide. Across the room, Porthos' mouth dropped open. 

Athos blinked slowly, his mind tracing over the words he'd just spoken. 

Oh, hell.

It was harder to lie about it when he was tired, when he was running himself ragged so they could have a few hours off-campus together, when he'd just forced himself away from Aramis' touch and warmth, and his body and heart and head were protesting.

And Aramis looked so startled, so _surprised_ at the mere idea of Athos and Porthos caring about him like that. It was all the proof Athos needed that Aramis just didn't think about them like that.

He swore a blue streak inside his head, then pushed a hand through his hair and forced another yawn, trying to look sleepy and not like panicky adrenaline had just jolted through him. "Or alternatively, we could all just agree that I'm still asleep and didn't just say something ridiculous about your body."

"No," Aramis said, closing his laptop, and Athos swore inwardly again. Aramis half-turned to him, his eyes bright and curious. "No, you definitely just said that."

Athos gave Aramis one of his patented flat-eyed stares, perfectly casual. "Well, you seem to treat it so cavalierly," he said, as matter-of-fact as could be.

Aramis flushed, ducking his head with a shy kind of grin, and he scooped his notes into a pile on top of his laptop. "And you two would take better care of it?"

"Well, yeah," Porthos drawled casually, apparently recovered from the heart attack Athos had just given him. "I think we've got a pretty good track record with it, y'know? I'd take Athos', too, if he was offering. Neither of you knows how to take care of yourself." Athos flipped him off as well as he could without giving away the fact that his hands were trembling, and Porthos grinned at him.

Aramis laughed out loud, still a little flushed, but clearly not taking them seriously. "Fuckers," he said fondly, then picked up his things. "I'm gonna go grab my philosophy book, be right back."

He left, and the second they heard his door close, Porthos fixed Athos with a wild-eyed glare. "Are you _trying_ to fucking kill me?"

"I am half-asleep and not responsible for what comes out of my mouth," Athos said loudly over whatever else Porthos wanted to say, dropping his head into his hands.

"Fucking shit, Athos," Porthos sighed, leaning his head on the back of the chair. 

Athos pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, creating swirling ultraviolet shapes behind his eyelids. "I know."

The silence pressed on his ears.

"He didn't seem opposed, though," Porthos said slowly.

Athos lifted his head, rubbing at his eyes. "I refuse to think about that." He couldn't get Aramis' face out of his head, the way Aramis had blinked in total, blank shock. Aramis would never think of them that way. It was a stupid, stupid hope, and it needed to die.

"We need to tell him, Athos," Porthos said, and Athos drew his legs up onto the couch, squeezing his knees to his chest. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to _think_ about this.

"It isn't even in his head," he said, his whole body on edge, too aware that Aramis could be back any second. "Why put it there?"

"Because it's driving us both insane." Porthos' voice was peculiarly soft. "You're working yourself exhausted just to give him this stupid night off campus, and I'm the fucking idiot letting you do it."

"What do you want me to say?" Athos said finally, looking up at Porthos. Porthos leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, and he looked tired, so tired, too. 

"I don't know," Porthos said, and his head dropped between his shoulders, their tense line making Athos' back ache in sympathy. "Something."

"Something," Athos said dryly.

Porthos laughed, lifting his head just enough to look at Athos with so much affection that it made his chest hurt. "Asked for that, didn't I?"

Athos nodded, one corner of his mouth tugging up, and he rested his head on his knees.

They did need to tell him. It ate away at him every day-- _we love you, you idiot, we love you and we love each other and we have so much to tell you_ \-- For fuck's sake, he was running himself into the ground trading favors and and party planning so he could take Aramis into the city for an undoubtedly shitty and underwhelming frat party, just to watch him light up at being freed from his cage, however temporarily.

That was unrequited love at its absolute fucking worst.

"Halloween," Athos said. He couldn't quite believe he was saying it, but there were the words, hanging in the air between them. "Not while we're out, because if he doesn't want to hear it, we'd be trapping him with us. But when we get home."

Porthos took a deep breath and let it out, and he nodded, the tense lines of his shoulders easing. "Halloween," he agreed. Just having the plan seemed to make Porthos calmer, easier. "Yeah."

Aramis' door opened and closed down the hall, and Athos dropped his legs, settling back into an easier position. Porthos leaned back, picking his book up again, and when Aramis came back in, nothing had changed.

"Miss me?" he said, like he always did. Athos had to choke down the _yes_ he wanted to give, feeling he'd already given himself away too much.

"We always do," Porthos said without looking up from his textbook, and Aramis hummed happily as he settled in beside Athos.

"I decided on our Halloween costumes," he said as he cracked open his own book.

Athos looked up sharply. "And?"

Aramis flashed him a sidelong grin. "You'll see. I'll need money to buy yours, by the way."

Athos sighed and dug in his back pocket for his wallet.

\- -

"Where," he said, three days later, staring at the costume and plastic sword on his bed, "did you _even,_ Aramis."

"Garment District, where else?" Aramis leaned against Athos' bedroom door, grinning broadly. That smile hadn't disappeared from his face all day. "It's perfect, yeah?"

"I can't," Athos said, shaking his head. "I _cannot,_ Aramis." It _was_ perfect, but he couldn't believe Aramis had found all of this.

"It's nice," Porthos said approvingly, looking himself over in the mirror. "C'mon, Athos, we'll be late."

Athos traced a finger along the bright blue fabric, running his thumb over the coarse costume embroidery. It looked very... _shiny,_ he had to give Aramis that. The enormous fleur-de-lis covering the chest was silver fabric, the same silver edging the tunic and running in stripes down the long, billowy sleeves.

There was also a hat--a big, wide-brimmed thing with a feather. It should have been ridiculous. But Athos could not deny that the hat and plastic rapier called to him on a primal, visceral level. He'd been a boy, once, after all, and the heroes he'd read about in books had carried long swords and worn dashing hats and had always cared about those smaller than them, those weaker than them, about their children and their families.

"We're real Musketeers," Porthos laughed, beaming over his shoulder at Aramis. 

Aramis smiled back at him, already decked out in his own finery. His hair curled beautifully under the hat, and he'd done things with his beard. He looked... _dashing,_ there really wasn't another word. Like Errol Flynn strolling off a movie set, easy in his own skin and loving it. And Porthos--

Porthos held himself a little differently, dressed like this. With the looser-fitting sleeves and shirt, Athos couldn't quite pinpoint the difference in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, but the smile on Porthos' face said enough, when he looked in the mirror to see it there. Porthos, seeing himself as the romantic hero at last--what everyone else had seen from the start, but maybe needing the extra trappings to see it for himself.

Porthos' eyes met his in the mirror, and Porthos grinned at him. "What?"

"You finally get to see yourself the way the rest of us do," he said.

Porthos blinked, his eyes going wide, and he looked at his own reflection again. Aramis laughed softly, his eyes warm and approving on Athos', and Athos ducked his head, feeling his own smile rise as he pulled the tunic on over his head.

"Everyone," he said, tugging it down and pushing his arms through the sleeve, "is going to groan when they see us, you realize. We are a walking cliche."

"They're just jealous," Aramis said loftily, striding past Athos and scooping up his hat. He set it carefully on Athos' head, then used precise fingers to swoop Athos' unruly bangs into artful disarray. 

Athos' heart beat somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, and he did his best not to read too much into the warmth on Aramis' face. Aramis' eyes were like the sun--too bright and too painful to stare at for very long.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Aramis murmured, his smile curving up in a teasing arch. It seemed like nothing could dampen Aramis' mood tonight--he'd practically been bouncing on his feet all day, he was so excited to get off campus.

Athos rolled his eyes, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. "Because this is the most intimate way you've ever touched me, Aramis."

Aramis laughed and turned Athos around for Porthos' inspection. "Yes?"

Porthos grinned and nodded. His eyes flashed soft for just a moment, when he met Athos' gaze. "Yeah, he looks good," he said. 

"Excellent," Aramis said, pushing Athos over a bit until they could all see themselves in the mirror.

It felt a bit like pictures Athos had seen of all three of them at fencing tournaments--the three of them a matched set, with uniforms and weapons. But like this, with the old-fashioned uniforms, gaudy enough to just nearly be a joke--there was something _appropriate_ about it.

Porthos met their eyes in the mirror and grinned. "All for one?"

Athos and Aramis shared a glance, and Aramis beamed. "And one for all," they echoed.

"We're disgusting," Aramis laughed, his whole face alight with happiness.

For a moment, they just smiled at each other, and Athos had never felt so perfectly balanced. 

It felt _so_ right that it scared him, a little, and he had to turn away.

"I need to make sure they've got everything for the party downstairs, then we can go," Athos told them. He grabbed his car keys off the top of his fridge and stuffed them hastily in his pocket, so the clinking of the keys wouldn't give away the tremor in his hands.

"All right," Aramis said easily, and slipped past him out the door. "Don't forget your sword."

"I will not forget my sword."

Porthos pressed a hand to his shoulder as Athos gathered up the plastic sword and thick leather belt. "You okay?" he asked, voice low so Aramis wouldn't hear out in the hallway.

Athos straightened and met his eyes, and there it was--an answering nervousness, trembling just a little behind Porthos' eyes. They were still going to do this. They were going to tell him.

"Yes," Athos said, ignoring the anxious lurch of his stomach. "Are you?"

Porthos grimaced, shrugging one shoulder. "Yeah. Don't let me chicken out, and don't let me drink anything tonight. I already feel like I'm going to throw up."

Athos faked the widest smile he possibly could. "We're going to have fun," he said, in his best imitation of Aramis in a mood.

Porthos rolled his eyes. He slung an arm around Athos' shoulder and steered him out of the room. "You're a fucking asshole."

"You look fucking _wonderful,"_ Constance exclaimed the minute they showed their faces downstairs. The Res Life staff had taken over the first floor living room, the biggest one in the dorm, for the party, and Athos had worked his fingers raw taping up decorations that morning at lunch. The whole room was a riot of orange and black, with crepe paper streamers and blinking strings of bat lights.

Aramis swept his hat off and bowed deeply to her, and Constance laughed in delight. She was dressed in black, in a long, flowing lace gown, and the pointed hat perched on her curls identified her as a witch. "Best I can do on short notice," she'd told Athos at lunch as they set up the room. He didn't know why she was being self-deprecating about it; she looked mischievous and lovely and altogether herself. He hoped there wasn't a single thought of Jacques in her head.

"Do you and Rin have everything you need?" he asked, looking around at the tables of snacks and drinks.

"We'll be fine," Constance said. "D'Artagnan said he'd help with some of the fetching and carrying, too, so we're fine."

"How nice of him," Porthos said with a perfectly straight face. The minute Constance's attention was drawn (someone calling her for more paper towels around the apple-bobbing bucket, and Athos was _so glad_ he wasn't working this party), Aramis elbowed him in the ribs.

"Be nice," Aramis said out of the corner of his mouth, just barely loud enough to be heard. "He's smitten."

"He's _whipped,_ and it is fucking fantastic," Porthos muttered back, not moving his lips at all. "Anyway, she deserves a boytoy, after the shit she's put up with."

"Children," Athos said as Constance headed back, and they quieted. She looked happy--bustling and busy was how Constance liked to be--and he couldn't help but smile when she drew closer. "Good, then?"

"Good," she laughed. "Are you driving out there, or taking the bus?" 

Athos shrugged. "Driving." The bus that ran between Dumas and the various Boston universities on weekends took a roundabout route, was too crowded, and would probably be coated in a thin layer of slime by the end of the night. Besides, if he drove, it would give him a firm reason not to get shitfaced.

"Be safe," Constance told them, and it was Porthos' turn to sweep his hat off and bow. She laughed, then took Athos' arm and pushed him toward the door. "Now you three get out, you've got a party to get to."

"Yes, ma'am," Aramis said with fierce delight, and grabbed Athos and Porthos by the back of their shirts, dragging them out of the common room and out to the doors.

He wouldn't shut up, the entire ride into the city. Aramis usually took the back seat when Athos was driving, because Porthos needed the legroom, and tonight he continually bounced forward in his seat to talk with them. It was a decent cruise on the highway, and Aramis spent the whole forty-minute drive bubbling over with conversation. 

"You know, the last time I went to a frat party at BC, you remember I couldn't get the silly string out of my hair for days?" 

"We remember," Porthos said, flashing a sidelong grin at Athos. "We also remember making you be patient and not letting you cut it out."

"You're welcome, by the way," Athos added. He caught Aramis' gaze in the rearview mirror. "Not that you ever thanked us, but you're welcome."

"I was really ungrateful last semester," Aramis laughed, and reached through the headrest to ruffle Athos' hair. "You two do so much for my sanity."

Athos twitched his head away, but a happy warmth flushed up under his collar, and it was all he could do to keep a straight face. Porthos couldn't stop grinning, and Athos could practically _see_ him luxuriating in having Aramis' attention all to themselves. Athos was feeling the same way. It was a little petty, but the three of them hadn't had much time on their own lately.

Aramis sighed happily as the Boston skyline proper came into view, and Athos couldn't resist looking sideways at Porthos.

Porthos' smile had faded somewhat, from something that was just -happy- to something more set. But when he caught Athos' eye, his eyes creased at the corners in a tiny smile, and he nodded.

They were fine. They were going to have a good time. Then they were going to do this together.

Athos hadn't spent much time at Boston College--a few fencing tournaments over the years, the occasional party or trip to a special collection--so seeing it in full Halloween spirit was a bit of a culture shock. There were just so many _more_ people than there were at Dumas. It was louder, bigger, wilder--and the three of them, in their costumes, were instantly sucked into the madness.

Athos was already regretting this decision.

"This is fucking _great,"_ Aramis declared, dragging Athos and Porthos behind him as they joined the streams of people heading to the fraternity house. 

"Let's just stick together, okay?" Porthos said, having to shout a little over the group of boys in togas running past, carrying a friend on their shoulders and chanting "Praetor!"

"Of course," Aramis called over his shoulder, flashing them the widest, clearest smile they'd seen from him in weeks.

What could they do, Athos thought wryly, but follow where he led, when he smiled at them like _that?_

Inside, the fraternity house pulsed with humanity--dancing, drinking, sitting in groups and chatting (and a few people leaned against walls in dark corners, but Athos wasn't going to think about that). It was pretty much like every frat party Athos had ever been to, down to and including the strong smell of weed that seemed to permeate every fraternity house at Dumas. He even recognized a bunch of other Dumas people, scattered around the room--they must have come on the bus.

"We could have stayed on campus for this," Porthos pointed out.

Aramis took a few steps ahead of them, turning in a circle to take it all in, then grinned back at them. "Come on, we're having an adventure. Let's go get a drink."

And again, Porthos and Athos followed Aramis, weaving through the messes of people in costumes. Aramis seemed in his element, saying hi to people, complimenting costumes and accepting ones for his, tipping his hat to anyone cute who smiled his way. Porthos kept a smiling eye on him, and Athos stuck close to Porthos. 

They found the drinks table, and Aramis chatted amiably to the bartender, a cute boy in a pirate costume, shamelessly flirting to get the three of them free beer.

"I like the hat," the bartender said teasingly, reaching up and flicking the brim. Athos and Porthos glanced at each other and rolled their eyes, looking somewhere else before their faces gave something away. Ah, Aramis in his element.

"You can try it on," Aramis said, his smile widening as he took the hat off and set it on the bartender's head. "Looks good."

"Aramis? Is that you?"

The voice was rich and dry, ironically amused, and its effect on Aramis was electric. His whole body tensed, like he'd been shocked, and Aramis spun around, his eyes huge and his mouth open in surprise. Athos and Porthos turned, too, and Athos had a very, very bad feeling about this. 

A tall stranger stood just behind them, dressed like a biker--leather jacket, boots, the whole nine yards. He had sunglasses on, but he pushed them up on top of his head when Aramis whirled around. He smiled slowly. "Still up to your old tricks?" he asked, in that same ironic, rich voice.

Aramis stared at him. He looked like he wasn't breathing.

When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. _"Marsac?"_

And then, to Athos utter shock, Aramis shoved past them and launched himself into the stranger's arms. "Marsac--oh, my God, _Marsac!_ I can't believe it-- what are you doing here?"

"I go here," the stranger--Marsac, Athos supposed--laughed, holding Aramis tightly. Aramis _clung_ to him, holding on like Athos had never seen him hold someone before--like he was afraid Marsac would disappear if he let go. Marsac held him almost the same way, his arms tight around Aramis, and Athos' gaze fixed on Marsac's hand stroking over Aramis' hair.

It was a very... _familiar_ touch.

Porthos tensed beside him.

"I don't believe it," Aramis said again, pulling back just enough to take Marsac's face between his hands. "I don't believe it, _Marsac_ \--where have you been, what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Getting by," Marsac said with a slightly bitter twist of his lips, and he pushed Aramis' hair back from his face, his hands sliding possessively through Aramis' thick and tousled locks. "God, you haven't changed at all, have you?"

"A little," Aramis said, and for some reason his voice wavered. Athos couldn't see all of Aramis' face, but what he could see looked vulnerable in a way Athos had never seen him look. "Have you?"

Marsac ducked his head and smiled faintly, and his hands settled on Aramis' shoulders. Aramis pressed into the touch, his body curving in a smooth line, and some jealous, bitter thing uncoiled itself in Athos' chest. He crushed it down, but it had already coursed like poison through the rest of his body, and his hands were shaking. 

"Not in the ways that count," Marsac said, and smiled at Aramis. 

Porthos shifted slightly, whether uncomfortably or purposefully, Athos wasn't sure. Marsac glanced up at them. His face slid into a blank mask, and he smiled blandly at Athos and Porthos. "Aramis, are you going to introduce us?"

Aramis frowned, then blinked. "Oh!" He turned back to them, and from the startled look on his face, Athos could tell--Aramis had completely forgotten he and Porthos were there.

That stung.

"Sorry," Aramis laughed a little breathlessly, running a bewildered hand through his hair. He still had one arm around Marsac's waist, and Marsac's arm settled on Aramis' shoulders. "Um, Marsac, this is Athos, and this is Porthos. Athos, Porthos, this is Marsac, we--" He trailed off, looking at him, and Aramis' hesitance told them more than anything he could have said. "We, um--"

"We went to high school together," Marsac said smoothly, leaning over and shaking Athos and Porthos' hands, and that was a fucking evasion if Athos had ever heard one. "Nice to meet you both."

"Pleasure," Athos said tonelessly, when it became apparent Porthos was just going to smile and nod. 

Aramis didn't seem to notice. Aramis didn't seem to be noticing anything except Marsac's arm around his shoulder. A blush lit his cheeks, and he couldn't stop looking at Marsac's smirking face. "We haven't seen each other in--in a really long time," Aramis said, and Athos had never heard him trip over his words like this before. He looked younger, suddenly, and he fit his body to Marsac's like he didn't even realize he was doing it. "Do you two mind if we catch up?"

Porthos' smile froze on his face. It took Athos a second to find his voice. "No, of course not," he said, forcing a smile as best he could. Happy. He had to be happy for Aramis finding an old lov-- _friend._ "Go ahead."

Aramis smiled at him, a wide-eyed and thankful smile, and Athos felt like the ground was slowly crumbling out from under him. "Thanks, I'll come find you later," Aramis said, and he took Marsac's hand and pulled him off through the crowd.

And Athos and Porthos stood there, left behind, as the party flowed around them.

"Well, fuck," Porthos said. 

\- - - 

"This is not," Porthos sighed as Athos returned, "how I imagined tonight going."

"What?" Athos asked, passing him a fresh beer. "Us playing wallflowers while Aramis reconnects with apparently the love of his life?"

They were, in fact, leaning against the far wall of the common room, watching Aramis and Marsac sit with their heads together on the bottom step of the stairs across the room. The longer they stayed, the more Athos felt like his heart was slowly shriveling and dying in his chest.

Aramis and Marsac's reunion had not been a pleasant thing to watch--at least, for Athos and Porthos. Athos had no idea what other people in the room were thinking. It probably looked like the fucking _Notebook_ to them. 

But for Athos, seeing Aramis look at someone else the way he'd only ever looked at Athos and Porthos, with that sharp and tender focus, hanging on Marsac's every word... Athos _burned_ with jealousy and hurt, but what right did he have? If Marsac had known Aramis years before they had, maybe it was he and Porthos who were intruding. 

"If you're thinking that flashy motherfucker in leather is Aramis' one true love, I'm going to smack you in your entire face," Porthos said. 

Athos snorted, but it was a humorless sound. "You don't think so?"

"It doesn't look right." Porthos glanced down at him, and off Athos' reaction, rolled his eyes. "Look at Aramis-- _really_ look at him. He's been on the edge of crying all night, like he's scared that guy's gonna say something awful to him."

Athos looked back across the room, frowning. Now that Porthos had pointed it out, though, he could sort of see it. Aramis sat gazing at Marsac like he was the sun, true, with his whole body leaning into the place where their shoulders touched and Marsac held his hands, but he did seem...different. Hesitant. Every time Marsac started speaking, Aramis would lean back slightly, almost a wince, then come back and press even closer.

"He's like a dog that's been whipped," Porthos said quietly. "Flinching away every time his master raises his hand."

"Don't talk about him like that," Athos said, and took a long drink of his beer. He didn't want to think about Aramis that way--he'd always seemed so bright and independent. But now, seeing him with this ghost in a biker jacket, he looked completely different.

"Isn't it true?" Porthos said in exasperation. "Does that look fucking healthy to you?"

It didn't, but Athos didn't exactly have any models for a healthy relationship. His parents barely spoke to each other, and he and Anne had been so violently codependent that he just assumed now that if they'd done it, it wasn't good.

"We don't know what happened between them," he said instead.

Porthos gave him a long look. "I will bet you money they dated and had a messy breakup."

"I'm not offering you money on that," Athos said automatically. It seemed obvious. They wouldn't stop touching each other, and it looked like their conversation had been difficult in parts.

"If he makes Aramis cry again, I'm going over there," Porthos said.

"Aramis wasn't crying."

"He was going to."

As much as he hated to admit it right now, Porthos was right. There'd been a moment, near the beginning of their conversation--Marsac had said something, and Aramis reacted like he'd been slapped. He said something back, sharp, because he was Aramis and that was what Aramis did, and it looked like they'd fought, then, both leaning in and talking very quickly. 

It ended when Marsac stood up and started to walk away, and Aramis jumped up after him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. Aramis took Marsac's face in his hands again, talking fast, and he'd been on the verge of tears, Athos could tell. The two of them sat down again, slowly, and Marsac took Aramis' hands in his. They hadn't moved from the step since--getting closer and closer together, in fact.

Porthos sighed heavily. "What the fuck are we gonna do, Athos?" He sounded defeated, and Athos understood the entirety of what he meant in that one quiet sentence. Not just tonight, because what else could they do but let Aramis do what and whom he pleased--but for tomorrow and all the days after that, if Aramis wanted to go?

Athos leaned against him, until they were holding each other up. Two collapsing objects, leaning in at just the right angle to stay upright. "Life went on before him," he said quietly. "I suppose it will go on after." 

Porthos nodded. "We talked in my psych class about how the worst part of a broken heart lasts six weeks," he said clinically. "The part where you feel like you're drowning, like you're gonna die without them. Six weeks, and then it gets easier." He swallowed. "We can stay busy for six weeks, right?"

Athos closed his eyes and rested his temple against Porthos' shoulder. "There's fencing. There's classes. We'll make do."

His chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, a star going nova in the face of Aramis' light leaving his life. They would survive. Life would go on--of course it would. It would be a hell of a lot less fun, and he'd miss him every day, but he could survive.

Porthos' whole body stiffened under him. "Athos," he said, his voice strained, and Athos started, opening his eyes.

Aramis was plastered up against the front of Marsac's body, and Athos could tell in a second that they'd just kissed. One of Marsac's hands curled in his hair, the other holding Aramis' hands tightly where they were pressed to Marsac's thigh, and Aramis stared at Marsac with this dazed, wide-eyed look of absolute need that Athos just could not bear to see.

Marsac stood, pulling Aramis up with him, and led him up the stairs. Aramis followed like he was on a leash, straining after him, and at the top of the stairs Marsac pinned him against the railing and kissed him again.

Athos felt Porthos shudder next to him. Aramis went totally limp, boneless, and it was terrible to see, the way their bright-eyed and playful friend had gone pliant and quiescent under this stranger's touch. Athos had spent nearly every waking moment of the past two and a half years with Aramis--Aramis wasn't himself, not at all.

If Aramis liked someone else being in charge, that was one thing--Athos' chest clenched at the thought of Aramis kneeling, offering himself, but even then he could see Aramis still owning himself, still playing and pushing until he surrendered with a smile. Porthos was right--this didn't look healthy. Aramis looked _broken,_ and the dangerous smile on Marsac's face as he led Aramis down the hall set Athos' racing heart into overdrive.

Porthos started forward, like he couldn't help himself, and Athos caught him. "No, Porthos."

"He doesn't look okay, Athos," Porthos said, his eyes locked on the shadows at the top of the stairs, where Aramis and Marsac had disappeared. "He _doesn't."_

"I know that," Athos said, his throat uncomfortably tight. "But it's not our place to jump in."

"We're his _friends,"_ Porthos snapped, rounding on him. He was mad, Athos could see instantly--Porthos had expected Athos to back him up. "If we don't, who the hell else will?"

"Exactly," Athos said, feeling his own anger rise. "We're his friends, not his boyfriends or his brothers. We don't have the right to storm up there and tell Marsac to back off."

"We have every fucking right," Porthos said hotly. "He's taking fucking advantage, Athos. Do you honestly think Aramis is in his right mind right now?"

Athos couldn't argue with that, and Porthos knew it. Athos took a deep breath and sighed. "Maybe not," he agreed, "but maybe this is how he is when he gets..." He waved a hand to fill in the entirety of his meaning-- _needy, wanting, maybe in love._ "We've never had sex with him, we don't know."

Porthos snorted harshly. "If this is how he gets when he has sex, I'm dragging him to the fucking counseling center. He looks like that guy could do _anything_ to him and he wouldn't say no. He wouldn't say yes, but he wouldn't say no. And that is not fucking healthy."

Athos gritted his teeth. Every muscle in his body was screaming to go up there, too, but this was Aramis' choice, not theirs. "Porthos, we're not going up there."

"Maybe you're not," Porthos snapped, "but I sure as shit am."

Porthos started forward again, and Athos grabbed his arm, pulling him back close. "You're jealous," Athos hissed in his ear. "You're jealous, and you shouldn't fucking go up there if that's the only reason why you think you should."

"You're fucking right I'm jealous!" Porthos said furiously, rounding on him. "I'm also fucking _worried,_ okay?" He made an exasperated noise at whatever he saw on Athos' face. "Look, when he talks about high school, what does he say?"

Athos sighed, gritting his teeth. "He hated it."

"Yeah. He hated it. People sucked, they treated him like shit, and he was so glad to leave and never look back." Porthos' dark eyes narrowed. "He's never mentioned this guy to us. Not once."

"I _know,_ Porthos," Athos snapped, pressing his hands to his eyes. His head ached. His heart hurt. He wished they hadn't fucking come to this stupid, stupid party. 

"So let's fucking go see if he's okay--"

"That is _not_ what we're going to see," Athos ground out, dropping his hands and glaring up at Porthos. "You fucking know that. He's made his fucking choices, and I'm not going to _watch."_

Porthos gave him a long look, the silence between them stretching thin to breaking. "Now who's jealous?" he said at last.

The words hovered between them, and all at once, Athos hated himself. -That- was why he didn't want to go upstairs, wasn't it? He just didn't want to see it. Aramis could be hurting, broken, in a bad place making a worse decision, and Athos was going to let him do it because he just didn't want to _see._

 _Coward_ echoed in his brain again, in his own voice, in Thomas's voice.

"We go upstairs," he said, his voice distant to his own ears. "We go upstairs and see if he's all right. If he wants an out, we give him one, but if he's fine, Porthos, we're leaving."

Porthos let out a tense breath and nodded. "Fine."

He started across the room, and Athos couldn't do anything but follow him. His stomach churned, his chest tight enough to make his breathing hurt, but what else could he do?

Upstairs, the hallway was deserted, the floor of rooms stretching out on either side of the stairs. Athos was a little surprised the party hadn't spilled over up here, but he supposed there were rules in a fraternity about those sorts of things. Porthos paced down the hall a bit, frowning into the darkness, and Athos looked the other direction, his heartbeat a heavy, painful pulse in his throat.

The only room that had a light on was what Athos assumed to be a small living room--it had a wall of glass windows, looking out into the hallway, and the door was ajar. Athos touched Porthos' arm, and Porthos glanced over his shoulder. Athos jerked his head, starting down the hall, and Porthos nodded and followed.

A mirror hung on the hallway wall, and when they drew closer, Athos realized, abruptly, that there was a mirror in the living room, too. Because the mirror in the hall reflected it, and--

He grabbed Porthos' arm and dragged him back against the opposite wall before he could see. His heart pounded so hard it was going to burst out of his chest, and his stomach lurched like he was going to be sick, and Porthos opened his mouth, not doubt to ask _what the hell is wrong with you--_

And then the sound that synced with what Athos had seen echoed down the hall, and Porthos froze.

Athos stared desperately at the floor, his gaze tracing the terrible seventies carpet pattern with everything he had, because maybe it would erase what he'd just seen. Maybe if he replaced it with something else, he wouldn't have to live with the memory of _Aramis pinned against a wall, Marsac holding his wrists above his head with one hand and his other nowhere to be seen; Aramis' face buried in Marsac's neck and one leg wrapped around Marsac's; the shift and push of Marsac's muscles because all Athos could see was his back--and then the top of his ass because his jeans were pushed down; and then in the fraction of a second Athos had seen, the sudden, desperate backward arch of Aramis' body and the moan that followed a second later--_

Porthos' hand clenched so tightly on Athos' wrist that he felt his joints pop. Athos focused on the sensation, the brief pain, because that mean he wouldn't have to think about--

Another high, choked groan filled the hallway, and Athos felt Porthos shudder. They needed to go. They weren't supposed to listen to this. They _couldn't_ listen to this.

He couldn't move.

"Oh, fuck," Aramis gasped, the sound clear and loud in the silent, deserted hallway. "Fuck, Marsac--"

"Yes," they heard Marsac's low growl, and Athos' mind went blank. He wasn't upset, he wasn't even angry--he literally could not feel or think at all. 

"Did you miss this?" Marsac went on, his voice a bass, rough pant. "Did you miss _me?"_

Aramis gasped for air, twice, before choking out the answer. _"Yes."_

"Say it."

"I missed you," Aramis moaned, broken and cracking. "I missed you so fucking much, I missed you every second, they all hated me and I needed you--shit, _shit,_ Marsac--"

Marsac groaned, low and muffled, like it was against Aramis' skin. "Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry," and Aramis was nearly sobbing, now, his breath coming high and fast, "I'm s-sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I _missed you--"_ His words caught in his throat, like his voice was stuck, and all that came out next was a _whine_ of clear need.

"Still so needy," Marsac said, his voice still that half-clear groan. "Still my gorgeous little slut, after all these years."

Porthos swayed on his feet like he was drunk, and Athos pulled him back, closer. This was his penance, Athos thought dimly; this was his punishment for Thomas, for Anne, for everything--standing here, legs rooted to the spot, frozen listening to the person he loved get lost to someone else.

"They took this away from us," Marsac went on, and abruptly Aramis' moans kicked up an octave in pitch, got louder, faster. "Took me away from you. But now I'm back, I'm right here--" Aramis' answering moan was stifled, like Marsac had taken it out of his mouth with his own. "Yes," Marsac hissed. "Just like that, Aramis, come on--"

"Oh, God," and Aramis didn't sound like himself at all, Athos had never heard his voice do this before, come out mangled and wrong. 

"Come on, angel," Marsac panted, "come on, love, you look so good when you come for me."

Aramis let out a strangled, guttural cry, sounding like it had been wrenched from deep in his chest--half sob and half exclamation, nearly painful, and Athos felt like he'd been drenched in ice water.

He knew what Aramis sounded like when he came, now.

Porthos' chest was tensing in waves, like he was crying. Athos held onto him, unable to do anything else.

Marsac and Aramis' breath was evening out, the two of them murmuring too softly for Athos and Porthos to hear, and they needed to go. They'd gotten all the proof they needed, that Aramis didn't need any rescuing. They should just leave him to it. Send him a text saying they'd just go, and then he wouldn't have to know they'd heard and they wouldn't have to see him the way Athos knew he would be, disheveled and flushed and sex-drunk from someone else.

"I did miss you," Aramis said, his voice barely audible to them.

"I know you did," Marsac said, his voice infuriatingly even.

"Marsac, you know I didn't mean it," Aramis whispered. "You know I didn't mean to."

"I know." Marsac sounded tired. "I know, Aramis." There was a beat of silence, then Marsac _hmmed._ "I suppose I should return you," he said, with something approximating a sigh.

"No," Aramis murmured. "And to who, anyway?"

 _That_ hurt, worse than anything that had come before. 

Marsac chuckled lowly. "Your boyfriends, of course."

Porthos sucked in a breath beside him. Athos' fingertips were numb where they dug into Porthos' wrist.

Aramis made a startled sound. "My whats?"

"Your boyfriends," Marsac repeated. "I see you're still as cavalier about fidelity as ever, then."

"Don't you fucking start that again, I _never_ cheated on you," Aramis snapped, and at last, for a fraction of a second, he sounded like his own self. "And who are you--" 

"Those two you introduced me to?" Marsac laughed. "The ones giving me the death glare from across the room all night? They _aren't_ fucking you?"

"No," Aramis said, and his voice was very different, suddenly. He sounded like the wind had been knocked out of him. "No, they aren't--and no, they weren't--"

"They certainly were," Marsac said, something ugly in his voice. "If you aren't with them, then why--"

He broke off, then, and the horrible silence stretched out for ages. Athos didn't know why Aramis wasn't _saying_ anything.

Then Marsac laughed. It was an awful, humorless sound, bitter and mocking. "Oh, Aramis," he said, almost condescending. Pitying. "You've done it again, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Aramis said, but the edge on his voice didn't quite cut. 

"Oh, you _have,"_ Marsac breathed. "Twice over, too. That's got to be a new record, even for you."

"You don't know what you're fucking talking about."

"Do you let them sleep in your bed, Aramis?" Marsac asked, his voice silky and poisonous. "Or do you sleep in theirs, curled around them so innocently they never guess what's going through your head?"

"Stop," Aramis said angrily.

"How about all those casual, _friendly_ touches, do you still do those, too?"

"I said stop!"

Marsac didn't stop. Marsac kept going. "Have they ever kissed you?" he asked, twisting the knife.

"No! We're not _like_ that!"

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Marsac hummed in a sing-song tone that made Athos want to punch something. "You've never told them, have you, princess?"

Aramis' voice shook. "Don't you fucking call me that."

Marsac ignored him. "Never told them about us? Never told them what you did?" There was a sharp, short sound of movement, fabric rustling and soft impact. Aramis exhaled a surprised breath, and Marsac sounded winded, too, when he spoke again. "Or do you just get them in bed, like this, and let your body do the talking like you always do?"

"Don't," Aramis said, sounding strained. "I don't want this."

Marsac snorted. "You always want it. You wanted it five minutes ago."

"That was _then,_ get _off_ \--Marsac!"

Athos' heart leaped into his throat, pounding hard enough to make him dizzy, and Porthos swayed in Athos' hold--they had to move, they had to--

"You did it again, Aramis," Marsac hissed.

"I didn't _mean_ to!" Aramis sounded close to tears, and Athos' brain fogged with blind fury. Then Aramis made what was unmistakeably a sound of pain. "Marsac, stop it!"

Porthos and Athos moved.

The door smashed open at Porthos' touch, and Athos barely glimpsed Marsac and Aramis on the couch before Porthos surged forward.

The next thing Athos knew, Marsac lay crumpled in a pile against the wall. Porthos stood over him, breathing hard, and Aramis sat curled in on himself on the couch, his eyes wide. Athos stood between Aramis and Marsac, and Marsac _would not_ touch Aramis again unless Aramis said so. And Aramis, shaking and disheveled, did not seem about to speak any time soon.

"He said stop," Porthos said, his voice low and deadly.

Marsac _laughed,_ actually laughed, and Athos' blood boiled. "You've got them trained perfectly, haven't you, Aramis?" he chuckled dryly, looking up at Porthos and Aramis through the fall of his hair. 

"Don't fucking talk to him," Porthos snarled.

Athos looked back at Aramis, taking a step closer. "Are you all right?"

Aramis pushed a shaking hand through his hair, and he tugged convulsively at his clothes, putting his shirt straight again. He didn't look at either of them. "What are you two doing here?" 

Athos' throat closed, and Porthos looked over his shoulder at them. Athos stared at Porthos, silently begging him to answer, and he didn't know if he wanted Porthos to lie or tell the truth. 

"We came up to check on you," Porthos said, and it wasn't a lie, exactly. "You didn't really look good when you left. Then we heard you saying 'stop.'"

Marsac laughed again on the floor, and Athos had never wanted to hurt someone as badly as he did right now.

Aramis' costume lay strewn across the arm of the couch, and he pulled it on with trembling hands. "Let's go," he said shortly to Athos and Porthos, climbing off the couch.

Marsac's mocking voice was dry and bitter, and it burned into Athos' ears. "Should have known one white knight was never going to be enough for you, _princess."_

Aramis' whole body flinched--then he whirled and _flung_ himself at Marsac, his face paler than Athos had ever seen it. Porthos had to catch him before he stumbled and fell, wrapping an arm around Aramis' chest and holding him back. It barely did any good, as Aramis flailed in Porthos' hold, scrabbling at his restraining arm with one hand and reaching out for Marsac with the other, fingers curled like a claw--and he was yelling, tears in his eyes, his face twisted in a way Athos and Porthos had never seen. "Don't you _fucking_ call me that!" he screamed, hurling himself against Porthos' grip. "Don't you fucking _dare!"_

Marsac just sat there, his head rolled back against the wall and a shine to his eyes, too, his mouth half-twisted in a smirking smile, basking in Aramis' fury.

Porthos got a better grip on Aramis and started to walk him backward. "Let's go, c'mon," he said quietly. "Don't give him another fucking second of your time, Aramis."

Aramis, his chest heaving and his eyes locked on Marsac, didn't answer. Then he straightened, getting his own feet under him so he could stand on his own. He pushed at Porthos' arm until Porthos let him go, and he lifted his chin, his dark eyes burning. He was shaking, but he was standing, and Athos had never admired him more.

"Goodbye, Marsac," Aramis said, and left.

And as always, Athos and Porthos followed.

The minute they were out of the room, Aramis' tall, straight stance faltered. But he kept going--he made it all the way down the stairs, across the main room where the party flowed on in full swing. Looking at that party, Athos thought, you'd never know three people had just had the worst experience of their lives upstairs. But then, he supposed that was always how it was.

Aramis got all the way outside before his legs gave out. He took two steps, then crashed to a heap on the sidewalk outside. He was shaking, whether from the cold or from adrenaline, Athos didn't know--regardless, he and Porthos moved unthinkingly to his side.

Porthos knelt beside him, wrapped his arms around him and drew him close, and Aramis folded himself into Porthos' bulk. He buried his face in Porthos' chest, his fingers digging in to the fabric so hard they left creases. 

He gasped in a breath, then all the air left his body in a ragged, tearing sob.

"Oh, Aramis," Athos murmured, sinking to his knees beside them, and he reached out to press a hand to his shoulder.

Aramis curled into Porthos even more, trembling violently. Porthos stroked his back, his hair, murmuring soft and gentle nonsense, and Aramis drew one shuddering breath, then another.

Then tension seized along his frame, and he flung himself _back,_ away from them. He scrambled to put distance between them, shaking his head, his gaze shuttered and turned inward. "No," Aramis said frantically, "no, oh, shit--oh, fuck, no--"

Athos and Porthos were too stunned to move. Aramis had never _retreated_ from a touch before, he was the most tactile person Athos had ever met--and he looked terrified. He looked like he was about to burst into tears. 

_"Fuck,"_ Aramis hissed, digging his hands into his hair, his fingers tightened into claws. "Fuck, _fucking_ fuck--"

"Aramis," Porthos tried, and he reached out a hand to him.

Aramis flinched away from him. "Don't!"

Athos and Porthos sat frozen, Porthos' arm half-extended and Athos' hand still hovering where Aramis' shoulder had been. 

Aramis had never, ever flinched away from them before.

"Don't touch me," Aramis said, staring at the sidewalk, at the street--anywhere but at them.

"Okay," Porthos said, softly and ever so slightly unsteadily, and he drew his hand back. "Okay, we won't." His voice cracked on the last word, and this, Athos realized-- _this_ was Porthos' worst nightmare: his best friend shrinking from him, terrified. Porthos, who was never sure if he belonged, even after all the proof to the contrary, who'd told Athos so many times that his friends mattered the most to him, mattered more than anything else.

Athos leaned against him, hoping to give Porthos some of that solidity and steadiness that he'd always given Athos. Porthos drew a shaky, steadying breath, and he pressed into Athos in silent response.

Aramis sat staring at the ground, his eyes huge and his face totally blank. People flowed around them on the campus, up the stairs, but the three of them sat totally still. Everything was already collapsing; they didn't need to hurry it along.

"I have to go," Aramis said distantly, tonelessly, and he started to push himself to his feet. 

"Excuse me?" Athos said, not caring how it sounded. He had to _what?_

"I'm just going to take the bus," Aramis said, still looking down. "I'll see you both later--"

"You're gonna _what?"_ Porthos demanded, getting to his feet as well. "Are you crazy? It's a half-mile walk, you don't have a real coat--"

"I'm fine," Aramis said. He glanced up at them for barely a second before turning away, and Athos could see his color high in his cheeks, and the awful, shuttered look in his dark eyes.

Porthos bit back a sound of frustration. "You can't even look me in the eye and say that." He shifted his weight like he was going to take a step forward--then visibly restrained himself, easing back against the impulse to move into Aramis' space. This was _killing_ Porthos--Athos could see the worry and fear plain on his face.

And Aramis still stood far enough away not to touch, his head bowed and his shoulders already hunching against the cold. He looked _miserable,_ and he didn't want their help.

"Aramis," Porthos tried again. His voice nearly cracked, and Aramis' head twitched up toward him before he visibly stopped himself. Porthos swallowed. "Aramis, please just let us take you home," he said, and it was the closest to begging Athos had ever heard him come. "You can sit in the back, we won't talk to you if you don't want to talk, but _please_ just come home with us."

Aramis closed his eyes, hugging his arms to his chest, and he swallowed, hard.

"Please, Aramis," Athos said, finding his voice at last. "We just want to know you're safe."

Aramis bit down on his own lip so hard Athos worried he'd break the skin. Looking like he was in pain, he nodded once, shortly, and started off across the sidewalk to where they'd parked the car.

The ride home was the most uncomfortable car ride of Athos' life. Aramis sat curled in on himself in the back seat, his legs drawn up to his chest and his eyes blank every time Athos dared a glance at him in the rearview mirror. Porthos had turned on the radio before five seconds had passed, keeping it low, and nervously changed the station every time a commercial broke in. He was also visibly chewing his own lip, clearly reminding himself every few minutes not to speak to Aramis, not to reach back, not to look over his shoulder.

Athos' brain had reached its saturation point an hour ago. It was too much, all at once, and he just didn't have the capacity to deal with it anymore. He didn't feel anything at all.

They were off the highway and winding through the twisting roads of suburban Massachusetts before Aramis finally spoke.

"He was my ex," he said, so quietly they could barely hear him over the radio.

Athos reached over and quickly spun the dial to silence, his other hand white-knuckling the steering wheel. "We guessed," he said, when Porthos stayed quiet.

Aramis nodded distantly, staring fixedly out the window. "I haven't seen him since school," he said. "We never really...got closure."

Porthos swallowed down a sound before it could get out of his mouth, and Athos flashed him a quelling glare out of the corner of his eye. Porthos nodded, the muscles tensing along his jaw.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked Aramis for the second time that night, hoping for an answer this time. And at last, Aramis met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

He was crying, the shine fading in and out in the intermittent orange sweep of streetlamps. Athos could see the tear tracks on his face.

"Not really, no," Aramis said, and rested his chin on his knees. He reached up and wiped at his eyes, then buried his face in his thighs. "Can you turn the radio back on?" he asked, his voice muffled.

Porthos sighed and obliged, and they rode back to campus in silence. They parked the car in the garage in silence, and walked back to the dorm in silence.

Athos didn't know why, after all that, he'd expected Aramis to want to stay with them when they finally emerged from the elevator onto their floor. It was just--what they did. Tradition. If one of them had an awful day, they'd seek out each other's company--more often than not, they'd just fall asleep together.

Athos and Porthos almost reflexively turned left from the elevator, heading to Athos' room--and Aramis went right.

Porthos stopped dead. "Aramis--"

"I'll see you both tomorrow," Aramis said, without a backward glance, moving inexorably _away._

"Aramis," Athos tried, but Aramis didn't stop, or look back, or even acknowledge him. They stood there, staring, as Aramis did something he'd never done before, and walk away.

He had every right to. They'd never _make_ him stay with them. It was good, really, that he still felt they respected him enough to let him go, for him to walk away.

Athos had just--never expected him to.

Aramis' door slammed shut, and the shock of it echoed in the pit of Athos' chest.

He and Porthos stood alone in the hallway, staring at the closed door. 

In all the scenarios he'd considered, every iteration of this night that he'd gone over in his head--somehow, Athos had never imagined tonight ending with the two of them and Aramis on opposite sides of a door.

"Shit," Porthos muttered, half-turning away. "Fucking, fucking shit--"

He paced a few steps away, toward his own door, and panic spiked in Athos' chest. He couldn't sleep alone tonight. He _couldn't._ That fucking bag of pills was still in the back of his desk drawer and it was calling his _name,_ he couldn't, he needed one of them, and Porthos was the only one left--

Athos reached out and caught his wrist. "No," he said, just barely able to stop himself from spilling the rest of it out like a sickness. 

Porthos looked back at him, startled, and Athos swallowed, hard. His fingers tightened around Porthos' wrist, his thumb stroking over the pulse point, and he stared at Porthos, not knowing what to say at all except--except-- _it's Porthos, it's fucking_ Porthos, _just_ say it--

"I probably shouldn't be alone tonight," he said, barely louder than a whisper.

Porthos' face softened, his eyes dark and warm with care, and he stepped in closer. "Okay," he said, and his hand turned in Athos' grip. His fingers threaded through Athos', calluses scratching rough against Athos' own, and for some reason, that particular sensation made Athos' mind go entirely blank.

He tugged on Porthos' arm, Porthos stumbled closer, his eyes wide with surprise, and Athos surged up to kiss him.

Porthos responded so quickly and so fiercely Athos wondered if he'd been waiting for Athos to make the first move. His free hand wrenched into Athos' hair, holding him close, and his teeth closed on Athos' bottom lip with a painful desperation. Athos pushed up into him, his voice cracking on a moan, and they were in the middle of the fucking _hallway,_ anyone who stepped out would see them, and he _didn't care._

No doors opened. No one stepped out to the bathroom; no one needed a drink of water.

Aramis did not come looking for them.

Athos would be grateful for all of that in the morning when his good sense came back. Right now, however, he was perversely disappointed that no one came to see when Porthos slammed him back against his door. No one heard the way Porthos growled into his collarbone, no one heard Athos' own broken sound as he fumbled with the handle. No one came to investigate the banging when they stumbled inside and kicked the door closed.

Porthos pinned Athos to the back of his door, his whole body covering Athos', and Athos arched up into it, shaking. They kissed with barely-restrained savagery, all teeth and crashing lips, and Porthos thrust a leg between Athos', holding him to the door with forearms flat against the wood and their chests crushed together.

Athos groaned into Porthos' mouth, rutting helplessly against Porthos' thigh, because his whole body was on fire and he _needed_ it, everything felt wrong and broken but this didn't, this couldn't. Porthos covered him, shut out the rest of the world, and it was just them, it was only them. Porthos' answering moan was everything he could have wanted, and his hips rode Athos' own leg, and Athos could practically taste Porthos' own desperation and despair.

It shouldn't just _be_ only them. _Just them_ felt all wrong, and he wanted to hear a knock on the door, he wanted Aramis here, _Aramis--_

They were going to tell him tonight, and now--

His face was wet with tears when he came, and Porthos' shuddering moan had two names mixed in it.

Athos' arms fell around Porthos' shoulders, and he buried his face in Porthos' neck. He shuddered, and he just wanted to forget, he wanted to numb it, he didn't want to _think_ about this.

"Stay," he whispered. "Please, please, stay."

"Yeah," Porthos said, his voice lower and huskier than usual, and his hands cupped Athos' face. His thumbs stroked rhythmically over Athos' collarbones, the touch so sweet Athos could sob again. "Where the fuck do you think I'd go?"

Athos went weak with relief.

Porthos half-carried him to bed and lay him down, then carefully stripped them both out of their sweat- and come-streaked clothes. It felt so good to be taken care of that Athos closed his eyes and just let Porthos move him, exposing his clammy skin to the cool air. It seemed to help Porthos as much as it did him--Porthos' hands were shaking slightly when he set Athos on the bed, but as his hands moved steadily over Athos' skin and clothes, his touch grew calmer, more sure, and Athos surrendered to it entirely.

"Can I take these off?" Porthos asked quietly, dragging Athos back into his own head. Porthos motioned to their boxers, and Athos nodded, looking up to meet Porthos' eyes. Porthos tugged his own off and down, then did the same for Athos', with excruciating care. 

His brain churned with so much exhausted misery, with the constant backbeat of _there are pills in your drawer, you could just take them and forget it all,_ that he barely even realized that meant they were naked together. And even when he did, everything else that night had been so awful and overwhelming that it was more of a relief than something to panic about. There was nothing left for him to hide from Porthos.

Well.

Except for the pills in the back of his drawer.

Porthos curled around him, tugging the blankets over him, and Athos went willingly into Porthos' embrace. He felt Porthos' strong arms wrap around him, pressed his face to Porthos' chest, and let Porthos' nearness block out the parts of him that itched to go digging in that drawer.

Porthos' chest rose and fell against him, and Athos used the soft repetition of his breath to count time. _Breathe out. Breathe in. You don't need the pills,_ he thought. _Breathe out. Breathe in. You don't need the pills. Breathe out. Breathe in. You don't need the pills._

Some hundred repetitions later, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I end a lot of chapters in bed, don't I? As always, I'm available [at my tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)  
> \-   
> **EDIT, some hours later:** [originally from my tumblr, after feedback there] Since a couple people have mentioned them now, I feel like I should say about the pills—they’re gonna be a pretty heavy weight on Athos’ shoulders for a while, because getting rid of them too easily would do a disservice to how hard it really is to have this shit pulling you down. Athos is tough, though—y’know, you have to be when you’re living with this shit—so have faith in him! This is going to be really hard for him, yeah, and they’ll weigh on his mind, but I will continue warning for mentions of prescription drugs for chapters that have that, and will include a specific warning for use/abuse, if/when it happens. Please let me know, y’all, if there’s anything else I can be doing to keep warning and keeping everyone in a good place.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several painful meals and conversations, and one excruciating combination of the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, dears. Apologies for the delay and for my apparent total inability to respond to comments; my life has been mad hectic and I keep trying to wait to give your wonderful comments the attention and energy they deserve. You are the must supportive and amazing readers, and it blows my mind every day that you care so deeply about this weird silly brainchild of mine.
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for a very brief recollection of last chapter's scene of sexual assault, but nothing graphic.

The knock on the door woke them both.

"Athos? You up?"

"Fuck," Porthos grumbled into the back of Athos' neck.

Athos blinked, raising his head. The light stabbing in through his open blinds threw him for a moment, but then he recognized the voice. "D'Artagnan." 

For a long second, he was too drowsy to realize why, exactly, that necessitated an expletive.

Then he remembered--mostly because just then his mind registered the hot expanse of Porthos' skin pressed along the length of his, his back tucked up against Porthos' front. The night crashed back into his head, and Athos dropped his head back into his pillow and groaned. Porthos' arm was still slung over his waist, his fingers laced in with Athos' (and what did that say, that they'd done that in their sleep?), and Athos was loathe to let go of him, even for this.

D'Artagnan knocked again. "Athos?"

"Is it just you?" Athos called.

A confused silence answered his question. "Yes?"

Athos sighed, still holding Porthos' arm around him. "Come in."

"I can't believe we didn't lock the fucking door," Porthos muttered against his hair, as the handle turned and the door swung open.

D'Artagnan came in, already talking. "Hey, so--" He looked up, then, and saw. 

Athos could only imagine how they had to look--the blankets covered their waists, but not much else, and they were fucking _spooning,_ he was going to _die_ of shame. 

D'Artagnan turned _bright_ red. "Oh," he said, blinking like a deer in headlights. "Um. Morning, Porthos."

"Come in and close the fucking door, idiot," Porthos said, without moving his face from Athos' hair.

D'Artagnan nearly tripped over himself hurrying to obey, closing the door firmly behind himself, then turning back and looking pointedly at the floor. Unfortunately, that just meant he was staring at their shed and scattered clothes, and he turned even redder and closed his eyes. "Sorry. I--sorry."

"It's all right," Athos sighed, rolling over onto his back. He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, his stomach sinking with dread, guilt--and embarrassment. It was sort of nice, actually, to be feeling something as normal and expected as embarrassment right now. "We're not hiding it, exactly."

"We're just not fucking talking about it," Porthos said.

"Yeah, _clearly,"_ d'Artagnan said, covering his face with his hands.

"Sorry to put you in this position," Athos said, sitting up. Regretfully, he let Porthos' hand drop. "Just--if you could not mention it, we'd appreciate it. We need to sort some things out about it before everyone can know."

"Absolutely," d'Artagnan swore, his cheeks still bright red. His eyes were still squeezed shut. It was weirdly endearing.

Porthos groaned, sitting up and rubbing at his face. "You've seen us naked in the locker room, y'know," he yawned.

"This is very different," d'Artagnan protested, but he opened his eyes anyway. 

"Think of it this way," Athos said wryly, looking up at him. "You have the ultimate blackmail material for now."

"I'm not going to do that," d'Artagnan scoffed, giving him a look, but the comment had put him at his ease. "I also came in with a _point,_ actually."

"I certainly hope so," Athos said. "You could pass me clean clothes while you tell us."

D'Artagnan blushed and turned to Athos' closet. 

"Boxers are in the top drawer," Porthos said, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over his eyes. "Get me some, too."

"Are they even going to fit you?" d'Artagnan muttered, but did as he was told. The detached part of Athos' mind that considered fencing nigh-constantly noted that the boy did very well under surprise circumstances.

He tossed them each some underwear, then started rifling through Athos' closet for a t-shirt and jeans, talking as he did so. "It's not super serious, but someone puked in the good shower last night--"

"Oh, wonderful," Athos sighed, pulling on his shorts under the blanket. He crawled over Porthos as he was doing the same and took the clothes d'Artagnan held out to him. "Anyone else handling it?"

"Constance is pointing people to the downstairs bathrooms, but she says she's not cleaning up your mess--at least, not any more than she already has." D'Artagnan gave him a sidelong look. "Which sort of made me think something's going on?"

Athos tugged his shirt down over his head and frowned at him. "Something specifically?" Constance was usually irritable about handling his messes, but the way d'Artagnan said it made him think--

"Have you seen Aramis this morning?" Porthos interrupted, and they both turned to look at him. 

"No," d'Artagnan said. "Why?"

Porthos sighed, exchanging a look with Athos. "No reason. If you see him, be nice to him. Some...weird shit happened last night."

"Oka-a-ay," d'Artagnan said slowly. "I'm just going to assume this is more drama I don't really want to get involved in?"

"You assume correctly," Athos said, buttoning his jeans and running a hand through his hair. "Porthos, I--"

"Yeah, see you later, just go," Porthos groaned, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his discarded jeans. 

Athos carefully closed the door behind himself and hurried down the hall. Constance stood outside the bathroom, patiently directing people to the stair door.

When she saw him, her lips tightened and her brows drew together, and Athos resisted the immediate impulse to flee. That was her "I'm trying not to shout" face.

He must have somehow conveyed his dread by expression or motion, though, because almost instantly, her face eased and she sighed, motioning him forward. "Good morning," she said. "I'm not entirely sure why _your_ residents told _me_ that your bathroom was a mess--"

Athos sighed, moving past her. "Good morning. I think I'm still regaining their trust."

"Yes," Constance said, and followed him into the bathroom. The mess was severe, but at least contained to the far shower stall. Resigned, Athos went to the janitor's closet and got out the rubber gloves and all-purpose cleaner--and, on further thought, disinfectant. Constance leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, and watched. She made no move to help him, and Athos was glad. It was, in many senses, his mess.

"Are you angry with me for things not related to shirking my res life duties, Constance?" Athos asked at length, when the frosty silence had become a little too much to take. It was easier to bring up while his hands were busy.

Constance sighed and reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "Not angry," she said, and he could tell she meant it. "Just projecting a bit, I suppose."

Athos was already mostly holding his breath because of the bleach smell, but if he hadn't been in the first place, he would have started to at that. "About?" he asked tentatively. 

He was expecting her to say something about Jacques--he was the one she usually projected irritation at male inadequacy about.

He was not expecting her to bite her lip and say, very quietly, "Aramis slept in my room last night."

Athos fumbled the spray bottle of cleaner and knocked it over into the puddle of disgusting he was cleaning up. He swore and picked it up gingerly, reaching over to turn the shower on and carefully rinse it off. The scattered crash of the shower perfectly concealed from anyone in the hall who might accidentally hear.

"Did he tell you anything?" Athos asked her, managing to keep his voice even.

To his surprise, Constance pushed off from the wall where she'd been leaning and sat down in the little changing area of the shower stall. "A lot of things," she said, her voice quieter now that she was next to him. 

It was a true fight to keep his voice level. "I see." It was a filler sentence, his mouth operating on autopilot until his brain could catch up. Until he could parse his feelings about it, really. 

Jealousy, that was the first feeling; jealousy that Aramis had gone to someone else, not to them. Then, right on its heels, guilt, that Aramis hadn't felt he _could_ go to them--

And then, finally, blessed relief, that Aramis had felt he could go to anyone at all. It had been the worry that Aramis had shut himself up, away from everyone, that had been eating at Athos the most. Aramis did not do well by himself.

"I'm glad he wasn't alone," Athos said, overwhelmingly relieved that he could mean it.

"So am I," Constance sighed. Athos glanced over his shoulder at her, and now that he was looking, he could see the lines under her eyes, the frizz at her temples: all the earmarks of someone who'd been up all night. "Ninon came over, too," she added. "I didn't really know what to say for some of the stuff he needed to talk about, and he trusts her."

For a heartbeat, Athos didn't understand. Then he remembered Ninon telling him about the work she'd done at Planned Parenthood, about the summers she'd spent volunteering at BARCC, and his stomach twisted. "That's good," he said, as neutrally as he could. He stared at the puddle of sick in front of him, mechanically scrubbing away and not seeing it at all. His mind kept flashing back to the brief moment that he'd seen, to Porthos hurling Marsac away from Aramis, to Aramis flinching away from the two of them.

"Did he seem better in the morning?" Athos managed to ask, as carefully as he could. 

"In some ways," Constance said, her voice slightly muffled, and when Athos look over, he saw her rubbing at her eyes. "In others..." She dropped her hands and looked at him, and it was such a _sad_ look that it almost threw him off-balance. 

Athos sighed and turned back to the drain. "Don't tell me," he said. "I'm sure he asked you not to, so don't--don't break his confidence."

"I wasn't going to," Constance whispered, but it was the regret in her voice that broke his heart.

Athos swallowed around the lump in his throat. He wanted to know. He wanted to know everything Aramis had told them--he wanted to have been there, he wanted Aramis to have trusted them to hear everything and love him just the same afterward. But he hadn't, so. Here they were.

"Be patient with him, Athos," Constance said, as he stood and turned the shower head to rinse everything away. "He's going to need you both when he's ready to tell you."

Athos watched the puddle and the bubbles rush down the drain. "He should know by now that we're always going to be there."

Constance sighed and stood. "Remember you said that," she said, and left him there with his thoughts and a terrible sense of foreboding.

\- -

When he finished, he found Porthos and d'Artagnan eating downstairs. Aramis was nowhere in sight when he scanned the room for a tousled dark head, and Athos wasn't sure if he was relieved or even more worried.

"Hey," d'Artagnan said as Athos sat down with his plate. He looked oddly shifty, and Athos cursed inwardly.

"Is this going to be weird now, d'Artagnan?" he asked bluntly, just to get it out of the way.

"What?" d'Artagnan blurted, staring at him. "No. I--what?"

Athos arched an eyebrow at him. "When I sat down, you moved as far away from me as you could without falling out of your chair."

D'Artagnan flushed awkwardly and looked at Porthos in silent appeal.

Porthos let out some sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh. "Check your phone," he said shortly. 

Frowning, Athos dug out his phone and opened it. There were two messages waiting in their app.

[Porthos: mornin. breakfast?]

[Aramis: Sorry, I ate already. I'm doing some work at Ninon's, I'll see you later.]

Athos blinked at the message, rereading it a few times to see what, exactly, about it had put the fear of God into d'Artagnan and that unhappy, resigned look on Porthos' face. "He's entitled to not spend every morning with us," he said slowly, looking up at Porthos.

Porthos gave him an odd look, then shook his head firmly. "Athos." He pointed over Athos' shoulder, and Athos twisted in his chair to look at the row of single tables along the far wall.

He hadn't noticed before--he'd been looking for dark hair--but now, he saw Ninon sitting, alone, at one of the tables. She was in sweatpants and a hoodie, nursing a cup of coffee and texting.

Oh.

Athos stood, feeling weirdly detached from his motions, and though d'Artagnan made a faint sound of uncertainty, Porthos didn't move to stop him at all. The walk across the dining hall seemed longer than usual, with tables multiplying between him and Ninon when he felt he'd already passed them. It was a strange, almost out-of-body experience, and it reminded him too much of days he'd spent in clouds and hazes with Anne.

He hated it.

Ninon glanced up as he approached, and she looked exhausted. Her eyeliner from the night before was smudged along her lower eyelids, and she'd squished her golden curls up into a bun far more casual than he'd ever seen from her before. She didn't seem surprised to see him. "Hey," she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Hey," Athos said shortly. His stomach felt like cold ice in his chest. He held out his phone, the messages still open on the screen. Ninon glanced at it, then sighed, looking away. Athos swallowed, hard. "So is he lying to us," he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, "or...?"

Ninon set her phone down. "He's not lying," she said, almost painfully matter-of-fact. "He's hiding in my dorm."

Athos swallowed. "All right." That was...better? No, no, it wasn't, not at all. He'd be fine with Aramis lying straight to his face--he was sure Aramis had done it before--but -hiding- was inexplicably awful.

Ninon flashed a complicated kind of smile up at him. She wasn't quite smiling all the way--her eyes were a little sad, and there was a frown between her brows that she couldn't quite erase. It made Athos' chest hurt, that it was bad enough she couldn't even _fake_ it being all right.

"Was it something we did?" he blurted out, fear and guilt squeezing the words out of his chest. He was already regretting it before they were halfway out of his mouth.

Ninon's face softened, and that--that look was definitely pity, there. "No," she said, reaching out for his hand. "You two did the right thing bringing him home last night, and he's grateful you stepped in, even if he's never going to show it."

Athos nodded silently, guilt still churning in his stomach. Ninon's approval eased the worried replays of last night in his head, but still--they had to have done _something,_ if he was avoiding them.

"Athos," Ninon said firmly, jolting him out of his head, and he focused on her again. "Stop spiraling. This is one hundred percent Aramis' shit, not yours."

Athos squeezed her hand, trying to steady himself against the waves of relief and anxiety flowing in and out. "His shit is our shit," he said, one corner of his mouth tugging up pathetically.

Ninon conceded that with a wry sigh, picking up her coffee again. "Must have been a fucking awful night for both of you, too, then," she said softly as she took a sip.

Athos remembered the way his stomach had lurched at the sight of Aramis clinging to Marsac on the stairs--the sick, dizzy feeling of abandonment, the way his hands and ears had flushed hot and his face had gone cold when he'd heard the two of them--when he'd heard--

He sat down heavily in the chair opposite Ninon, his knees deciding abruptly they were done holding his weight. 

She squeezed his hand again. "You should go back to Porthos," she said softly. "I think you two need each other."

Athos nodded blankly, still trying to drag his mind back from the night before. "When he's done hiding out in your room," he said, his tongue heavy in his mouth, "tell him we--just-- He knows we don't think less of him, right?"

"We told him about twenty times last night," Ninon said softly. Her normally-bright eyes were dull and glum, and Athos hated that he'd been even slightly responsible for that. "But he thinks less of _himself_ for letting it happen, so all we can do is be here until he comes out of it."

Athos nodded again, unable to do anything else. Porthos. He should go sit back down with Porthos and d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan was already expecting him to react badly--he needed to get up, he needed to pull himself together.

But Aramis hiding away, halfway across campus, ashamed and alone--the image dragged at him like an anchor, pulling him down into a black and gasping void. 

"It sucks, doesn't it?" Ninon said, her fingers tight in his.

Athos nodded wordlessly. He sat there for a moment, steeling himself to go and explain all this to Porthos and d'Artagnan. Then he sighed, shook his head, and got up. "Thank you for being on his side," he said, squeezing her hand once more before letting it drop.

Ninon inclined her head, her tired smile not reaching her eyes. "I think I'm going to go into counseling after all," she said, and reached for her coffee once more. "Apparently I have a calling."

It startled a chuckle out of him--the first positive emotion he'd felt since d'Artagnan knocked on his door this morning. "If you think he's up for it, ask him to come home for dinner," he said, and headed back across the checkered tile floor to Porthos.

Porthos, he could tell from one look at his face, was not happy. He was even less happy once Athos explained. D'Artagnan looked nervous, caught in something he didn't quite understand, and Porthos' face become more and more bleak the more Athos went on.

"...So we may or may not see him for dinner, I suppose," Athos finished. He gave Porthos a narrow look. "And would you please stop looking like the world is about to end, because I really can't handle that right now."

Porthos sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry," he said, his voice muffled through his fingers. "D'Artagnan, you wanna fuck off for maybe five minutes so we can talk?"

"I can fuck off all day if you'd like," d'Artagnan suggested, gathering his utensils onto his tray and standing up.

"Yeah," Porthos said, the same instant that Athos said, "No." 

Porthos gave him a look, and Athos sighed. "I do not," he said quietly, looking right at Porthos, "intend to completely disappear into our own little vortex of shit, okay? We have lives outside each other, we need to fucking act like it."

Left unspoken was, _if Aramis doesn't think we're going to suffocate him with feelings, maybe he'll come back._

He had a feeling Porthos understood the unspoken end, from the look on his face.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, and forced a smile as he looked up at d'Artagnan. "We'll see you in a while?"

"I'm going to the fencing studio once I've eaten," Athos said firmly. "Let anyone who wants to come know."

D'Artagnan smiled at him and nodded. "I'll post on the group," he said, and picked up his tray. "See you guys later?"

Athos nodded, and Porthos blew out his breath. "Yeah, see you."

The minute d'Artagnan was around the corner, Porthos dropped his head onto his arms. 

Athos felt like something was eating away at his heart, leaving him hollow and lost. "What?" he said, when he couldn't stand the silence any more.

"He's not coming back," Porthos said, his voice hollow and muffled between his arms and the table.

There was such utter conviction in that echo that it made Athos' own heart thud to a stop in his chest.

"Of course he is," Athos said once he found his voice again, because he _had_ to believe that. "Why wouldn't he come back?" 

Aramis needed them as much as they needed him. Aramis cared about them, didn't he? They'd had each other for two and a half years, how--how could it just be over, just like that?

Porthos lifted his head, his dark eyes utterly fucking miserable. "He's never _hid_ from us. You know who he hides from?"

"Treville," Athos said, because he couldn't see where Porthos was going with this. Aramis would hide from Treville when he thought their coach was going to berate him for his carelessness, but he didn't ever do it to anyone else.

Porthos gave a despairing laugh. "Adele. He hid from Adele, remember? When he was trying to figure out how to break up with her."

Athos went cold all over.

Aramis had practically lived in Athos' room for two days during their sophomore year to avoid the redheaded artist. They'd had a brief and tumultuous affair, but once Adele was set to leave her boyfriend for him, Aramis had realized how incredibly stupid and cruel he'd been to try and seduce her away. He'd hid for two days until he'd worked up the guts to apologize, and (after some prodding from Porthos and Constance, and silent judgment from Athos) tell her she deserved better than someone who thought so little of her that he'd put her in that position. She'd been furious--numerous beautiful, violent paintings had been on display in the student gallery for the next week--but she was still with her boyfriend and they seemed happy, and she was perfectly cordial to Aramis now. 

The idea of getting that talk--and then having nothing but _perfectly cordial relations_ with Aramis for the rest of their lives--made an awful numbness spread from the top of his head down to his fingertips.

"That was different," he said finally, his brain and mouth on autopilot. "That was different, he didn't--he wasn't-- She hadn't..."

Porthos looked steadily at him, and Athos floundered to a stop. 

"Fuck," he said, when the inescapable truth of it pushed down on him and forced the words out.

Porthos nodded. 

"He can't," Athos said. "Porthos, it's been two and a half _years,_ he can't."

 _He needs us,_ he wanted to scream. _He needs us, too, he_ cares _about us, doesn't he? He wouldn't just drop us like this. Not over this._

"I wish we'd never gone to that fucking party," he said finally, for lack of anything better to say.

"I wish Aramis' fucking shittiest ex in the world hadn't been at that party," Porthos corrected him. "What the fuck happened with those two?"

Athos shook his head, his throat tight with fear and pain. He could probably find out. It wouldn't be hard--there had to be someone else who'd gone to Catholic school in California who'd heard about it. Athos knew private school gossip traveled far and fast. Yes, he could definitely find out.

It would be the absolute worst betrayal of Aramis' trust he could possibly commit, but he could get answers, if Aramis didn't want to tell them.

Athos reached up and pressed his hands to his eyes. "He'll have to tell us," he said, hating and proud of himself at the same time.

"Yeah," Porthos said, resigned. "Whenever that happens."

Athos dropped his hands and glared at him. "If you could stop imagining the worst for five seconds--"

"What the fuck else am I supposed to do?" Porthos shot back. He didn't look angry, he didn't even look upset, Athos realized--he looked defeated. "At least I'll be fucking prepared for when it happens."

Athos stared at him. This was something he'd never seen in Porthos before. "So you're just giving up?" he asked, not sure he was understanding correctly. Porthos, just giving up the fight?

Porthos' face closed like a shutter had slammed down over it. "I'm cutting my losses," he said shortly, and picked up his tray.

Athos' throat went tight with panic, and he half-lunged from his seat, grabbing at Porthos' wrist before he could walk away. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean it like--"

The tension drained from Porthos' body, and he shook his head, dropping his tray back on the table and sinking into the chair d'Artagnan had vacated. He was closer to Athos now, and it was easier to see the pain in the lines around his eyes, like this. "It's not you," he said, and the tightness in Athos' chest eased slightly when Porthos' body swayed slightly into his, like he was seeking comfort. "It's not what you said."

"Even if it wasn't, it clearly provoked something," Athos said. He wished he could reach out and take Porthos' hand. He wished anything about this could just be _normal._

Porthos nodded, and flashed Athos an awful little half-smile--awful, because of how totally devoid of Porthos' warmth it was. "People leave," he said. Matter-of-fact, completely emotionless, and Athos hated that enough people had done that to Porthos to make him _expect_ it like this. "When you're not expecting them to stay, it hurts less to see them go."

They still knew so little about Porthos' life before college--he didn't talk about it, and they never tried to ask. It seemed peculiarly violating, to want to know about things he clearly didn't want to mention. Athos had never _regretted_ not knowing until now--now, he wished he'd known at least something, so he wouldn't have carelessly brought up something so painful. 

For once, Athos let the first thing that came into his mind be the first thing he said. "I don't know why anyone would ever leave you."

The surprise on Porthos' face was what killed him. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and his lips curled in another humorless smile. "Well, you'd be the first."

Discretion be damned. Athos reached across the table and curled his fingers around Porthos', squeezing hard. Porthos looked at him in blank shock, then--slowly, like a wave cresting and breaking far out--almost shyly smiled back, and laced his fingers through Athos'.

"Porthos, I--" Athos began, then stopped. He couldn't say it. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. It wasn't hard--far easier than some of the other things he'd said to Porthos.

_I'd never leave you._

Four words, but a world of promises Athos didn't know if he could keep, and didn't know if he deserved to make.

"All right, don't give yourself a heart attack," Porthos cut in, his voice gruff and peculiarly soft, and Athos looked up at him, startled. Porthos was smiling, though, his eyes tender, and he squeezed Athos' hand. 

"I get it," he added, and Athos breathed easier.

"I'm shit, I'm sorry," he said, looking away--God, how pathetic he was, unable to get out the bare minimum of comforting words for the person who mattered most to him in the whole world.

"You are not," Porthos said severely, and it was Athos' turn to blush and smile faintly.

Porthos sighed and shook his head ruefully. "We are such a fucked-up bunch," he said, but it was a fond kind of despair coloring his voice. 

"Yes," Athos agreed. It was sort of a relief to say it out loud. Yes, they really were. But he and Porthos, at least, were in it for each other.

The thought of their missing third sent another sharp jab of pain through Athos' chest. He chewed his lip for a moment, brooding, then sighed. "We should get to the studio."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed.

They didn't move. 

Athos caught Porthos' sideways glance, and they both smiled and looked away. 

"Yeah, we're fucked up," Porthos sighed, his lips curling in a smile, and he pushed himself up with one hand. Athos' was still held tightly in his other, and Porthos gave it one more squeeze before letting it drop. "C'mon, before the kids fuck up all the mats."

"Oh, God," Athos groaned, and followed him.

There were far more people at their impromptu practice than Athos had anticipated--nearly the full team. A curious mix of pride and anxiety boiled in his chest as he and Porthos stepped into the fencing studio and everyone looked up.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan said cheerily. He was in full padding, though most of the others just had their jackets, and it looked like he was the de facto leader in Athos' absence. This development didn't concern Athos as much as it probably should. "Could you show me that cool Matrix parry again? I was trying to show Morena and fell on my ass."

"Nice," Porthos said, dropping his bag and grinning broadly at the younger fencers. "Anybody Vine it?"

"Gently, Porthos," Athos said, even as a warm happiness suffused his chest. It felt good to be of use. 

"What? Remember we were talking social media for the team? I'm just thinking--"

D'Artagnan flipped him off casually, and Athos hid a smile as he went for his foil on the rack. It was amazing how much better he felt the minute he stepped into this room.

His good mood lasted until he realized the épéeists needed a bit more direction than he and Porthos could give. Felicia and Simon, the two seniors who fenced épée, hadn't come, and it seemed a shame for the sophomores and few first years who were considering épée to miss the practice time.

Porthos was watching d'Artagnan drill a few sophomores in a quick series of steps the boy seemed to have have mastered in the womb, but when Athos caught his eye, his brows drew together. He tilted his head in a clear _what?,_ and Athos nodded to the aimless épéeists across the room.

Porthos followed his gaze, and Athos saw the resignation cross Porthos' face. He looked back at Athos and shrugged a single shoulder, and Athos nodded. It couldn't hurt to try.

He pulled out his phone and opened their messaging app, trying to keep it as short and to the point as possible.

[not sure if you saw, but we're having impromptu practice in the studio. if you aren't still working, new epees could use a guiding hand]

He stared at his phone for a long moment, trying to make sure it wasn't pressuring or passive-aggressive. After warring with himself for a painful second, he added [would welcome your assistance] and sent it. He wanted Aramis to know they wanted him, not just that it would be convenient to have him.

He jumped when his phone buzzed almost immediately, and he looked back down in surprise.

[Yeah, sure. Be there soon.]

He looked up wildly for Porthos, his heart beating out of his chest. Porthos was watching him, and he blinked in alarm at whatever he saw on Athos' face. _Okay?_ he mouthed. 

Athos nodded reflexively, pushing a hand through his hair. All at once he felt far too disheveled and sweaty and unshowered to even be in the same room as Aramis, let alone comfort him and make him feel wanted and loved. 

Porthos was giving him a look, Athos realized when he surfaced from his brief flood of panic. Porthos, across the room, was giving him a steady, stern look that said eloquently to _get a fucking grip, Athos._

Yes. Right. Get a fucking grip, Athos.

He had no idea how Aramis was going to be, but he had to get a fucking grip anyway. 

Thankfully, none of the rest of the team seemed to notice Athos' sudden jitters--or if they did, they were too kind to mention it. D'Artagnan gave him an odd look when the tip of his foil was clearly shaking more than usual, but that was easy enough to ignore.

He did miss a step--and his heart missed a beat--when he heard the door click open. "Shit," Aramis laughed, "did someone call a full practice and I missed it?" 

Athos turned so quickly he nearly cracked his neck. Aramis dropped his backpack by the door, straightening to look around the room, and he looked fine, a little rumpled, maybe, but otherwise fine--he seemed straight, tall, like himself.

Then their eyes met across the room.

Aramis' face tightened, his brown eyes hastily darting away, and Athos went cold all over. No one else noticed--no one else knew Aramis well enough _to_ notice--but it was that same little flinch of avoidance, of fear, that had made him draw away from them the night before.

Every nerve in Athos' body screamed to go to him and ask _why_ \--and every saner impulse in his head screamed back to leave Aramis the fuck alone and protect himself. Aramis was not going to say _yes, thanks for asking, let me explain why I've acted so strangely._ Aramis would lash out and pull away harder if Athos tried to push right now.

So Athos turned away and tried to force down the nauseated heaving of his stomach, and all the cold-sweating, heart-pounding feelings that went with it.

He tried to focus on the cheer of greeting people had sent up at Aramis' arrival. That was good, wasn't it? People were happy to see him and they let him know. He'd feel better with that, surely--he'd feel cared for.

Only he wasn't looking at Porthos, either, a detached part of Athos' brain realized, and _that_ was what made him angry, at last. It was fine if Aramis walked all over Athos' feelings; Athos was shit, he'd gotten them all in this situation, and he deserved it.

But Porthos, no. 

Porthos hadn't moved from where he was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, but he watched Aramis get his fencing gear, smile, talk to _everyone else_ with a heartbreaking intensity. 

_Look at me,_ his face screamed, as his eyes tracked Aramis' motion. _Look at me, please, look at me._

Aramis didn't. He turned his back, in fact, settling into deep conversation with their prospective épée fencers, and every part of Porthos seemed to deflate. Every part of Athos that was tended in any vague way toward protectiveness reared up and snarled at the way Porthos' shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. The light went out of his eyes, and Porthos looked down at his shoes, suddenly seeming much smaller than his broad frame usually allowed.

Athos resisted the urge to punch the wall. He knew, dimly, that wouldn't help at all, and it would only break the mirrors.

Fine. If that was how Aramis wanted it to be.

They did very well completely ignoring each other for the entirety of the two hours they stayed in the studio. After about half an hour, Athos could tell the team was beginning to realize something was going on. The three of them were inseparable. There had never before been a practice where they weren't practically in each other's pockets, sparring and heckling and swapping in-jokes. 

But since Aramis refused to even look at Athos or Porthos, smiling too brightly and laughing too loudly to convince anyone that he was really okay, that was impossible today. Athos worked with his foil fencers, keeping an eye on an uncharacteristically quiet Porthos, and Aramis focused on his épéeists to the exclusion of everything else.

It was fucking miserable. Athos wasn't as good at pretending things were fine when they fucking weren't as Aramis was, and seeing Porthos so affected made him want to punch something again. After a while, he stuck to just refereeing practice exchanges between his fencers, so his eyes and mind would stay occupied--and so he wouldn't accidentally hurt anyone else with the savage whirlwind of his emotions, unleashed on a fencing strip.

Aramis laughed at something across the room, softer and more genuinely then he'd been laughing at anything all afternoon, and out of two years' habit, Athos looked across the room, seeking him out on reflex.

Aramis was smiling, a shy half-smile, like he wasn't sure he was supposed to be, and Athos' traitorous heart thumped harder in his chest. Like it always did for Aramis.

He looked fucking miserable, too.

A sudden wave of guilt swept up and dragged Athos under. What the fuck was wrong with him? Being angry with Aramis, who'd gone through his own personal hell last night, because Aramis didn't feel strong enough to deal with Athos and Porthos today? Just because Athos had clung to Porthos and Aramis after his own awful experience with Anne didn't mean Aramis had to do the same.

They didn't own him, they didn't _deserve_ his attention or affection. If he couldn't even _look_ at them, there had to be something wrong. Aramis wasn't the kind of person who'd ignore his friends out of...out of spite, or for whatever shitty reason Athos had just been ignoring _him._

 _Good job, jackass,_ he viciously congratulated himself, _you've fucked it up again._ Now he just needed to figure out how to fix it.

The instant five o'clock rolled around, Athos stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Activity came to a halt around the room, and he deliberately avoided looking at either Porthos or Aramis as he moved to a place where the whole room could see him. "Great job today, everyone," he said, and meant it once he was outside the downward spiral of his own head. "I can't believe so many of you showed up for a spur-of-the-moment practice, and I'm thrilled with the work you all did today."

A murmur of pleasure ran around the room, and Athos forced a warmer smile, trying to remember it was his job to encourage them, even if inside he was a mess of nerves and pain. "I think we're going to be in good shape for the meet in three weeks," he went on, keeping his face straight around the stab of fresh anxiety at the thought of it. Three weeks was awfully soon. "We're hosting five schools and there will be a lot of people here, so please bribe or otherwise coerce your friends into working event staff positions. Treville has promised me we can pay this time." Another laugh went through his people, and Athos breathed a little easier.

"That all being said," he finished, doing his very best to stay as light and informal as possible, "I think we all should go and get dinner. Agreed?" 

"Hear, hear," Porthos said, and everyone laughed. Athos met his gaze across the room, and Porthos' warm expression made him feel more supported than the approval of the entire room.

Then again, on reflex, his eyes sought Aramis.

His heart spiked in fear as he saw Aramis quietly scooping up his backpack where it lay by the door. Aramis looked nervous, and the way he edged toward the door while everyone else broke up and went for their things made Athos' chest tighten. He was going to slip away--disappear again. And Athos wouldn't have a perfectly plausible excuse like this to bring him back next time--they wouldn't have fencing practice again until Monday, and Athos _hated_ the idea of Aramis hiding himself away all of Sunday.

Out of nowhere, d'Artagnan materialized next to Aramis and draped an arm around his shoulders. Aramis nearly jumped out of his skin, looking at d'Artagnan with an apprehension that made Athos' heart ache. Was he scared of _all_ his friends now?

They were too far away for Athos to hear what they were saying over the general babble, but whatever d'Artagnan said worked. Aramis' frightened look eased into a tentative smile, and he laughed at whatever d'Artagnan said next, closing his eyes and shaking his head. 

D'Artagnan patted his shoulder and glanced around. He found Athos, and jerked his head almost imperceptibly toward Athos. _Get over here before he bolts again,_ his eyes said, and Athos picked up his bag and started making his way across the room.

Porthos' path intersected his about halfway there, and Athos was deeply reassured when he felt Porthos' familiar presence beside him. They didn't have to look at each other--Porthos' hand just barely brushed the small of Athos' back just before they reached Aramis and d'Artagnan, and it sent a warm, sustaining spark through Athos' whole body.

"Any ideas for a dining hall?" Athos asked as he and Porthos approached, addressing the whole crowd milling around by the door. Ostensibly, he was asking everyone.

He looked right at Aramis when he finished, though, trying to keep his face as open and casual as possible.

Aramis blinked, and the tops of his cheeks flushed with color. He shrugged one shoulder, meeting Athos' gaze for half a second before looking away. "Whatever everyone else wants."

It was so abrupt as to be almost rude, and Athos felt Porthos bristle behind him. 

Porthos, clearly, had not had the same moment of realization Athos had earlier in the hour. Porthos, Athos realized suddenly, had been deeply upset for the better part of an hour and a half, and instead of taking Porthos aside and talking to him about it, Athos had let him stew in it. So now, after ninety minutes of nursing a broken heart, it was logical that Porthos would see Aramis avoiding them even more as Aramis twisting the knife, instead the defense mechanism Athos assumed it was.

So Porthos tensed up behind Athos, a low rumble of irritation barely audible in his chest, and the lines around Aramis' eyes tightened even more.

God _damn_ it.

"Alexander?" Athos suggested, before Porthos could say whatever he could feel him getting ready to. He had a feeling it was going to be rough.

"Sounds good," d'Artagnan said firmly, and the rest of the team gave a general sound of assent.

As they headed back across campus to the dorm, Aramis was careful not to walk too close to Athos or Porthos, sticking either to d'Artagnan or the younger épéeists. Athos tried to force down the irritation that wanted to bubble up in him at Aramis' clear avoidance of them, in the face of his earlier realization. Porthos, however, was another story.

"Easy," Athos said in a low voice to him.

"He's being ridiculous," Porthos said, but the heat in his voice didn't match the look in his eyes. Porthos was still mostly _hurt,_ regardless of how he was letting it turn into anger. "Doesn't he _know_ we don't give a shit how many boys he's fucked, or whatever the hell he's hung up on this time?"

"No," Athos sighed. "He clearly doesn't. And he's clearly fucking miserable, too, so we have to just give him space."

Porthos flashed him a look. "When did you get so eager to defend his shitty decisions?"

Athos opened his mouth to respond with something sharp that he knew he'd regret in about five seconds--then closed his mouth, breathed, and forced himself to answer calmly. "When I had an incredibly traumatic encounter with an ex that I didn't want to talk about."

Porthos looked stricken, suddenly, and Athos felt physical pain at the guilt he saw there. "Athos, I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't," Athos said, putting a hand on his forearm. The rest of the team flowed around them on the sidewalk and grass, their chatter covering Athos and Porthos' quiet conversation. He drew in a deep breath and sighed. "I know, Porthos." 

Porthos sucked in a breath and held it, then let it all out in a rush. "He doesn't, though," he said softly, looking ahead to where Aramis walked with his hands in his pockets. "He just knows that I keep giving him angry looks across the room." He shook his head, chewing on his lip. "Fuck, I've made it worse, haven't I?"

"We have dinner to fix it," Athos told him. 

For once in his life, he really wished that he could believe his own lies.

Dinner was the most excruciating thirty minutes of Athos' life. Because the team, by longstanding, well-meaning habit, had left two chairs open for Athos and Porthos--opposite Aramis. There was nothing Athos wanted _less_ right now than to force their company on Aramis when he clearly wanted to avoid them.

The split-second look of blank terror on Aramis' face when Porthos and Athos sat down opposite him wrenched at Athos' heart.

But since Aramis clearly, desperately wanted to pretend everything was all right, Porthos just as desperately wanted to make things _actually_ all right, and Athos had been raised from birth to suffer in silence and not make a scene, not one of them asked to change seats.

Athos watched Aramis push his salad around in circles on his plate, and every atom of his body wanted to reach over and take Aramis' hand, to squeeze it tightly and not let go until Aramis smiled again. If it weren't for d'Artagnan on Aramis' other side, valiantly making every attempt to hook him into the conversation, Athos doubted Aramis would have spoken at all. Porthos sat mostly silent as well, and the leg he'd pressed against Athos' under the table jiggled nervously every time Aramis spoke. Athos felt strung-out and tense between their opposing poles of anxiety, and it was all he could do just to keep his mouthfuls of risotto down.

"You have deLancie for philosophy, don't you, Porthos?" d'Artagnan said at one point, looking appealingly at him. There was a silent plea in d'Artagnan's eyes, and as Athos shook himself from his reverie, he realized the whole table was quieter than usual. D'Artagnan must have been carrying the conversation since they sat down.

"Yeah," Porthos said, sounding like he was shaking himself as well. "Yeah, sorry, what?"

"Is deLancie a tough grader?" Jen, a sophomore a few chairs down, asked (more gently, Athos was sure, than they deserved). "I'm getting kinda worried about the midterm."

Porthos blinked and nodded, and Athos really admired the way he could drag himself into focus sometimes. "Oh, gotcha. Nah, Jen, deLancie's not bad, you just have to watch the participation grade. Aramis and me always--"

He faltered, his face coloring deeper, and Athos glanced quickly across the table. Aramis was staring fixedly at his plate, his knuckles white around his fork. 

Then, suddenly, he looked up, his face blank and pleasant. "Always pick a day when we're just going to do all the readings and talk about everything, so he'll get off our asses for the rest of the month."

It was the most words he'd said in one go all afternoon. His voice was a little _off,_ to Athos' ear--slightly strained, a false note of brightness here and there--but it must have had Aramis' magic, because almost instantly the tension around the table eased. Like everyone taking a sigh of relief, Athos thought dryly, as he heard the other conversations pick up again. 

Aramis had a strange, soft look on his face as he looked around the table--like he hadn't quite realized how much his mood had been affecting the rest of the team. It was touching, in a way, that the others responded so strongly to the three of them. 

Touching, and worrying. If they couldn't get their equilibrium back, what would it do to the team?

Aramis apparently came to the same conclusion at the same time, because when Athos looked back at him, there was a painful look of resignation on his face.

Abruptly, Aramis set down his silverware with a clatter and stood up. "I've got a paper to write, I should probably go," he said, a little too casually to really be convincing. "See you all--"

Athos barely had time to set down his fork before Aramis scooped up his plate and bolted.

Porthos swore aloud and scrambled up after him. Athos followed, because what else could he do but follow, if the two of them were going to jump off a fucking cliff?

They caught up to Aramis in the alcove where the dish return window clattered with plastic and the loud spray of water. Aramis practically threw his plate on the conveyor belt and turned for the door, his shoulders tight like he knew they were behind him, and Porthos did exactly what Athos hoped he wouldn't do, and called his name. "Aramis, wait up--"

Aramiz froze for a split second, long enough for the two of them to reach him, for Porthos to catch his free wrist and tug him around. 

Then Porthos realized what he was doing, and dropped Aramis' wrist like he'd burned him. "Sorry," he said, a little breathless from their sprint across the dining hall.

Athos watched, rooted to the spot, as Aramis and Porthos stood staring at each other. It was a narrow little space they stood in, and Athos thanked God that no one else was there, that the plates and water kept their words from drifting out into the dining room.

"Sorry," Porthos said again, his voice lower, softer, and Aramis' eyes did that tiny half-blink again, that barest _flinch_ that made Athos' heart crack in his chest.

"Look," Aramis said, and his voice was unsteady. He swallowed, blinked, and tried again. "Look, I just--I don't--" He took a deep breath, and Athos realized he was trembling, just barely. Aramis crossed his arms, hugging his chest, and it was such a painfully closed-off stance compared to how he usually stood, so loose and casual and free.

Then he opened his eyes, and his dark gaze was hard. "Just don't, okay?" Aramis said finally, and the words were like a slap.

Porthos rocked back slightly, and the hurt on his face killed Athos worse than the words. "Don't what?" he snapped, his temper always so close to the surface when his heart was broken. "We're your _friends,_ Aramis."

Aramis closed his eyes, looking away, like he couldn't bear to watch Porthos say it, and Athos wanted to _shake_ him. _Why won't you_ listen _to him?_ he wanted to yell. _Just listen, we just want you to be okay--_

"We're not--not gonna _judge_ you, or anything," Porthos went on, so much emotion in his voice Athos could hardly stand it. "We just want you to trust us, okay?"

Aramis looked back up at that, and his eyes had gone soft--so soft it took Athos' breath away. His brows were still drawn tight, his jaw set, but his brown eyes were hopeful, _pleading,_ and shiny with tears.

"Please," Athos said, and Aramis looked sharply at him. Athos swallowed, his tongue swiping out over his dry lips, because he hadn't even made the conscious decision to speak, it had just forced its way out from the painful tightness of his chest. But he was committed now, so-- "Please, Aramis."

Aramis shook his head minutely, glancing down--but his eyes darted up to Porthos again, tentative and hesitant, and he opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Everything in Athos and Porthos froze, waiting-- Then Aramis swallowed and closed his mouth, pressing his lips together hard and blinking furiously. "I can't," he said, his voice barely audible.

Porthos let out a desperate, frustrated sound, and swayed a half-step forward before he remembered himself. "Aramis, it's _okay."_

It must have been exactly the wrong thing to say.

Because Aramis' shining eyes went dark, and all emotion slid from his face, leaving a heavy, blank pain in its wake. It was awful to watch, to see _Aramis_ disappear away into this mask of himself, to look into his eyes and see _nothing,_ nothing at all.

Aramis looked up at Porthos, and his total lack of feeling left Athos completely cold. "And you saying that is why it isn't," he said, and walked away.

They stood and watched him go. They were too shell-shocked to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mention that Ninon's done work for BARCC--BARCC is the [Boston Area Rape Crisis Center,](http://www.barcc.org/) and a very worthy organization for your funds and volunteer hours. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on [tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) My boss is going out of the country next week, so my work duties may increase correspondingly and there may be some delay in getting the next chapter out. feel free to poke me on the tumblrs if you feel it's getting too long.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three miserable weeks, one difficult conversation, two bedrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to get to this part for a long time, so it came quickly, what can I say? Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments; as always, they are the wind beneath my wings and the sole reason I've gotten this far, and I'm so sorry I haven't had the time to respond to them individually. I love y'all.
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for references to those drugs, one oblique reference to the death of a family member, and alcohol use (Aramis this time).

Athos had only ever been in one relationship before. He and Anne had been madly in love, and then in one night, their life together crashed and went down in flames. When it ended, it had ended so quickly and so painfully that he'd literally quit cold turkey. 

The slow, painful collapse of a relationship was something he'd never experienced. Its quiet, excruciating drag was entirely new to him. He'd never realized that torture could be a daily thing, exquisitely raw with every cut, every snip of the scissors severing another thread from a fabric you'd thought was woven so tightly it would last forever.

Because that was how Athos and Porthos lost Aramis: day by day. Every meal he didn't eat with them, every practice he spent avoiding them, every night where they sat together in Athos' room and Aramis didn't come--one more silent break, like a knife ripping through the ties that had held them together.

It had been two weeks since they'd ruined everything with that conversation in the dining hall. Two weeks since Aramis had completely closed himself off, turned his back on them, and left without another word. He'd barely spoken to them since, just the occasional word when it would have been ruder not to say anything at all, and every time Athos saw him, he had that shuttered, dead look on his face. 

They'd stopped trying after a week. Stopped texting him, stopped trying to engage him in conversation, stopped asking d'Artagnan and Ninon and Constance to let them know how he was-- _where_ he was. There was no point, Porthos said as they lay together in Athos' bed, his head in Athos' lap and Athos' fingers tracing gently across his head. Porthos sounded dead, too--tired and sad in a way Athos had never seen him before. 

It had been hardest on Porthos, for all that he'd tried to keep his hopes low in the first place. Porthos was the one who'd wake with dry tear tracks on his face, the nights he spent in Athos' bed (just sleeping, because the desire for anything else felt obscene, right now--like they'd tarnish it forever if they tried again, and neither of them wanted that at all). Athos, for his part, didn't feel anything at all anymore.

It was a relief, to fall back behind his old, emotionless defenses. Feeling everything so _deeply_ had been exhausting. He just couldn't handle it anymore. He only really came out of his shell for Porthos, on bad nights when Aramis had spent all of dinner at the far end of the table, deliberately not looking down to where they sat. He'd come out from behind his wall, like a snail peeping out of its shell, and he'd hold Porthos or let himself be held, whichever Porthos needed. He wanted to do this, he realized--he _wanted_ to be there for Porthos, wanted to do whatever Porthos needed, because it didn't feel like the agonizing, draining exercise it used to be, allowing himself to feel needed, doing things for others.

Because Porthos gave back, he supposed. Porthos could carry some of Athos' baggage when it was too heavy--he never expected Athos to just carry both of their shit. Anne hadn't been like that. They'd loved each other, but they hadn't known how to help each other.

The drugs she'd given him still sat in the back of Athos' drawer, and their siren song was louder than ever. The only thing that kept Athos from doing anything about it was the way he never, ever wanted Porthos to see him like that--and Porthos was always with him now. That, and the way Porthos was quietly, imperceptibly broken right now. He still got up and went about his day, did well in his classes, was still the warm, joking, solid presence that Athos needed, that the team and his friends needed--but Athos could almost see the hairline fractures running through him, shimmering like cracks in glass every time Aramis deliberately wasn't there. 

One more solid hit, and Porthos would shatter. 

Athos would do anything and everything not to be that hit.

So he went through his days like nothing was wrong, when everything was. He spent two weeks getting the team ready for the meet and getting his floor in order before Thanksgiving break. He couldn't fucking wait for Thanksgiving. The meet was the Saturday before the holiday, and then they had the whole fucking _week_ off. He planned to wrap himself in his blankets and in Porthos, and not move from his bed for eight days. He thought he fucking deserved that.

It was the Sunday before the meet, and he and Porthos had gotten up to go for a run--or, more accurately, Porthos had dragged Athos from a self-pitying doze and mercilessly nagged him about not being in shape for the meet until he gave in and put his track clothes on. It was crisp and cold outside, the sky a flat, featureless gray, and once he'd shaken off his sleep inertia, Athos did feel much better for getting out, getting up. Porthos set a leisurely pace (that was a little brisker for Athos, with his shorter stride, and he supposed that was deliberate on Porthos' part), and they fell into an easy harmony, leaves crunching under their feet as they took the wide, meandering path around the lake.

Aramis' ghostly figure ran at their sides, as much as Athos wished he could make it go away. They'd done this run so many times with Aramis, the three of them running abreast along this path, that he and Porthos almost on reflex left space for him: slipping into single file as they ran over the bridge, when two would have been able to fit easily; splitting to run around a tree, where there was plenty of space on the path for two runners to take the same side and go around it. 

Aramis would laugh, too--Aramis was the chatty one as they ran, somehow having enough breath both to jog and to tell jokes. Their run was very quiet without him.

Neither of them said a word about it, but Aramis' presence hung over the both of them as they walked back to the dorm afterward, overheated and chilled all at once from their exertion and the weather. The path curved around by the campus chapel, and the sidewalk was crowded with people leaving the morning services.

People like Aramis, tousle-haired and clearly not coming from his own bed. He stood slightly apart from the other people, clearly deep in conversation with someone Athos couldn't see.

Well, some detached, awful part of Athos' mind thought, he _did_ always put in an appearance on their runs.

The crowd shifted, Porthos stopped with a sharp intake of breath, and only then did Athos realize Aramis was holding hands with Anna. Lovely, kind, queen of Student Activities, very much in a relationship, Anna.

"Come on," Athos said quietly to Porthos, trying to stifle the anxious throb of his own heart. Porthos started walking again, slowly, his eyes lingering on Aramis and Anna.

Aramis lifted both of her hands to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, his eyes very serious on hers, and Athos' stomach lurched. What was _wrong_ with him? He _knew_ she was with someone else--and they'd just come from _church,_ for fuck's sake-- It didn't look like an innocent touch, not with the way Aramis was looking at her, not with how Athos knew he'd felt about her for years.

The way they were standing, though, Athos could see both of their faces, and Aramis... Aramis looked easy for the first time since Halloween. He was smiling softly, letting his face actually show emotion instead of those defensive masks he put up around Athos and Porthos these days.

It felt like spying, Athos thought uncomfortably, as he and Porthos walked down the path toward the church. Aramis clearly didn't want them to see him like this any more (friendly, at his ease, _happy),_ and accidentally catching a glimpse felt like--like peeping into his bedroom.

He needed to stop staring. He knew that. This exchange with Anna was not something Athos or Porthos was meant to witness, no matter how publically the two of them were carrying on.

But he'd been so starved of Aramis for so long, asking his body to turn away felt like asking his heart to stop beating. Athos really hated how weak he was sometimes, but he couldn't _help_ it. His gaze drank in the lines of Aramis' features, the smile on his face, the easy lean of his body. He had sex hair, God, he couldn't even comb it for _church,_ but it must have been a good night, because Athos hadn't seen Aramis relaxed like this in weeks. He didn't look happy, exactly, but he didn't seem to be carrying the weight he did when he was forcing himself to be around them.

Athos couldn't stop _staring_ at him. He'd been dying of thirst for weeks and Aramis was the only water in the world. 

Fuck, he missed him. He missed him so much.

Beside him, he heard Porthos sigh, and Athos let his hand brush against Porthos' as they walked.

Anna touched Aramis' cheek, smiling up at him--then she glanced over his shoulder and saw Athos and Porthos walking past.

She nudged Aramis gently and said something, and Aramis turned to look. When he saw them, his face fell, and that hard, shuttered look came down again. In half a second, he'd lost everything soft or easy about himself, just because he'd seen the two of them again.

Anna tugged on his hand and Aramis turned back to her. The crowds of people shifted again, breaking Athos' line of sight, and he was absurdly grateful that he didn't have to see what happened next. 

Because when someone moved out of the way, he saw Aramis pulling away from what could only have been a kiss, and the soft, vulnerable _longing_ on Aramis' face broke his heart enough. 

Then Aramis glanced back and saw them, and his pained, defensive look came back. He said goodbye to Anna and started up the path back to Alexander. Athos didn't look back, but he could feel Anna's eyes on them until they were out of sight.

He hated her in that moment. It was stupid and petty, and he prayed it would be over soon, but he couldn't help resenting her. For seeing Aramis as he was meant to be, when they couldn't. For being so gracious, so generous with him. 

For having him in her bed.

Because of course that was what had happened, he realized as he watched Aramis slouch up the path that would cross theirs at some point. That was the reason for the handholding, for the gentle conversation, the talk. The kiss, that had made Aramis nearly cry with its sweetness.

Of course it would. 

The path Aramis walked on merged with theirs at the foot of the hill to Alexander. Almost without thinking, it seemed, Aramis fell into their rhythm, his hands shoved in his pocket and his shoulders hunched. He walked a defensive ways away, but Athos still knew him well enough to tell: Aramis knew they had something to say, and he was just going to get it over with.

"I cannot believe," Athos said softly, "that you slept with the queen."

Aramis stared straight ahead as he walked, his profile sharp in the directionless light. He had eyeliner smudged along the bottom of his eyelids, and his hair was a mess, and his clothes looked like they'd been worn for two days. "Yes, I did," he said. 

For all that Athos had figured it out, the confirmation still stung.

"Not that it's our business," Porthos said, his voice tenser, more choked than Athos expected it to be, "but isn't that just a little bit shady of you?"

Aramis gave a humorless snort, and he shook his head, his lips twisting in a cold smile. "You can calm down," he said, still staring straight ahead. "Louis was there, too. He's the old-fashioned type. Would have walked me home from church if he hadn't had a meeting."

Athos and Porthos stopped dead on the path, staring at him. Aramis glanced over his shoulder, the curve of his lips devoid of emotion, and he looked _tired,_ as tired as Athos felt. "Don't tell me I've shocked you."

"I didn't think they were that kind of couple," Athos said, too hot underneath his skin and too cold outside. Unwanted and unbidden, the image of Aramis between Anna and Louis came into his head--and it was a good one. It must have been, for Anna to look so graceful and content, and Aramis...

Aramis had looked happy, before Athos and Porthos had come into the picture and ruined it. 

"They gave the impression they'd be glad to have me back," Aramis continued, his voice toneless. He stood with his hands in his pockets, half-turned away from them and resolutely looking up the hill toward Alexander. "But there's something contemptible about accepting an invite for a pity fuck more than once."

Athos and Porthos glanced at each other. There was nothing and too much to say to that, all at once.

Aramis grimaced, then, a self-conscious sort of frown Athos had seen him make a hundred times when he'd said something he thought he shouldn't have. He shook himself and started up the path again. "Anyway. So that's the latest update from me," he said, and Athos recoiled from the bitterness in his voice.

He'd never heard Aramis sound so...self-loathing before.

"Aramis," Porthos called after him. His shoulders twitched, but he didn't stop walking. "Aramis, I didn't mean what I--"

"No, you did," Aramis said over his shoulder. "It's fine. It's true, isn't it?"

"It's true," Athos said, "that it's none of our business."

It was that, oddly enough, that made Aramis stop and look back at them. He was higher on the hill than they were, his face hard to read against the uniform gray of the sky.

This was the closest they'd been for two weeks. 

"Aramis," Athos said, starting up the hill. He had no idea what he wanted to say, but he couldn't just let him walk away.

Aramis tensed, looking wary, suddenly, like a wild animal about to bolt, and Porthos caught Athos' wrist, holding him back. Athos strained at the edge of Porthos' reach, staring up at Aramis and feeling actual, awful pain in his chest. 

_Come home,_ Athos wanted to say. _We miss you, we want you back, we want you happy again--whatever we did, we're_ sorry, _just come home so we can fix this._

But he just couldn't make the words come. 

"Will you come to practice tomorrow?" he asked finally, taking a half-step back into Porthos' protective shadow.

"We missed you on Thursday," Porthos said. 

Aramis ducked his head and half-laughed, a cracking little thing completely unlike his usual one. "Right," he said. "Yes, I'll be there. Meet's this weekend, isn't it?"

Porthos let out a harsh breath, and Athos felt it warm on the back of his neck. "That is not," Athos said, "why we missed you."

Aramis stared down at them. His hands worried nervously at the edges of his pockets. 

"Right," he said, his voice tight, and he turned and headed up the hill.

Athos and Porthos watched him go. Athos took another step back, and he came up against Porthos' chest. Before he could apologize or push away, Porthos' arm came up and wrapped around him, holding him close. 

Porthos sighed and rested his chin against Athos' shoulder. 

Athos closed his eyes and leaned back, and he reached up to cover Porthos' hand with his own. He knew they couldn't stay like that, outside in broad daylight, but he didn't want to move.

"Aramis might come back," he said, his voice hollow to his own ears.

"Yeah," Porthos said, a sad and bitter twist to the word, but he let his arm drop anyway. "Let's go eat."

Aramis wasn't in the dining hall, as Athos half-hoped he would be. Aramis wasn't anywhere at all, it seemed, until Monday afternoon, when he was the last person into the fencing room and the first one to leave. 

Athos did his best to push through practice while resisting every single impulse in his body that screamed for Aramis. _Space,_ he ordered himself in constant refrain. _Give him space. Give him time._

 _Give him too much space, and he'll drift away,_ the awful voice in his hindbrain whispered. _Give him too much time, and he'll think you don't care._

He gritted his teeth and forced his thoughts back into the moment. D'Artagnan and Andrew were sparring, and Athos was supposed to be watching them. 

His hands ached as he closed them around the grip of his foil, his feet itching to move into action. He hadn't done a practice bout of his own in a week. He couldn't focus enough, and he was too worried his frustrations would leak in. He was going to be actual shit at the meet.

It was too much to hope Treville wouldn't notice. Their coach didn't say anything, but Athos felt that cool, sharp gaze on the back of his neck all through practice. When Aramis darted out barely after they'd finished, Athos heard Treville's audible sigh from halfway across the room.

Athos glanced over at him on reflex, and Treville crooked two fingers in his direction when he saw he had Athos' attention.

Athos swore under his breath and looked around for Porthos. He was talking to one of the sophomore sabres about their grip, however, and Athos gritted his teeth and walked over to Treville alone.

Their coach didn't have to say anything. His single arched eyebrow was enough.

"I know," Athos said, his hand moving restlessly on the grip of his foil. 

"What happened?" Treville's voice was low and carefully free of judgment.

"I have no idea." 

Treville accepted that at face value, thankfully. "Can you fix it by Saturday?"

Athos stared at the mirrored wall. Most of the team had drifted out, but Porthos leaned against the wall by the door, frowning at his phone and clearly waiting for Athos. "I don't know if we can fix it at all."

Treville sighed, reaching up and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Athos, I know how important your friends are to you," he said quietly, mindful of his voice carrying across the emptying studio to Porthos. "But I need this meet to matter to you, too."

Athos looked down at his foil, curling his fingers around the well-worn metal. "Any reason in particular? Or is this just the usual reminder that I've been shirking my duties?"

"I didn't say that," Treville said. "But you know the stakes."

"I know." The team's funds depended on their win record. Funds for gear, for trips, for the students on sports scholarships. Every single one of his closest friends needed the team to win so they could stay. 

And there were other considerations, of course.

"I'm doing my best," he said, his voice unsteady.

Treville nodded, considering that. "I've seen you at your worst, Athos," he reminded him. "And coming out of that-- _that_ was your best." He pushed off from the wall, and clasped a hand to Athos' shoulder, just for a moment. "Your best is better than this," he said quietly, then left, nodding to Porthos as he did.

It wasn't _I'm disappointed in you,_ but it came close. He probably could have driven Athos' foil through his chest and hurt him less.

Porthos walked over as soon as the door had shut behind Treville. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Athos wondered what his own face looked like to make Porthos look so worried. "Athos?"

"We need to win on Saturday," he said, turning and heading across the room to the foil rack. 

"Yeah, I know," Porthos said, perplexed. He followed Athos' sharp, jerky movements across the room, and out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw Porthos' reflection reach out, then pull his hand back. "Are you okay?"

Athos set his foil in the rack, blinking furiously. His heart beat double-time against his ribs, in his throat, and he stared fixedly at his foil--the graceful curve of its handle, the sleek, straight line of the blade.

He knew it better than his own hands.

"This couldn't be happening at a fucking worse time," he said, his own voice quiet under the rushing in his ears.

"It's just a meet, Athos," Porthos said, and the question was clear. _Isn't it?_

He stood for another moment, trying to breathe. 

Then he turned blindly to Porthos and buried his face in his chest.

Porthos let out a startled breath, and his arms came up to encircle Athos. "Okay," he said, one hand settling in Athos' hair. "Okay, I'm gonna say no, then."

Athos closed his eyes, gasping in one breath, then another. His chest was painfully tight, like steel bands around his ribs, squeezing, _squeezing,_ and he felt tears soaking Porthos' shirt under his cheek. He couldn't stop gasping, his head throbbed like it was going to burst, and he couldn't catch his breath--

"Babe, you're shaking," Porthos murmured, stroking his hair. "Breathe with me, come on."

"Of all the fucking times," Athos said through gritted teeth. Of all the _fucking_ times for his life to fall to shit, of all the times for this to be the season with the highest fucking stakes of his life, of all the times to have a _fucking panic attack_ \--

 _There's medication for this in your desk drawer,_ he thought, and choked down the hysterical peal of laughter that tried to bubble up through his chest.

Porthos eased them slowly to the ground, pulling Athos into his lap like a fucking child. He'd be embarrassed if he weren't so grateful. 

It took ages for his breathing to calm, for Porthos' steadiness to seep into his bones and help him ride out the crushing torrent of anxiety. 

"There you are," Porthos said gently, once he'd been able to breathe normally for a little while.

"Yes," Athos said, embarrassment starting to creep up now that he was fine again. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize to me," Porthos said, with the attitude of someone who expected to repeat themselves at least three more time. "I signed up for this, remember?"

Athos let out a weak chuckle. "Some things, but not this."

Porthos' hand cupped Athos' chin, and he lifted Athos' face up until their eyes met. "Yes, this," he said firmly, then let him go, moving his hands to rub lightly at Athos' shoulders. He seemed to know Athos would duck his head again, unable to hold his gaze, but he still let out a resigned little sigh when he did. "You wanna tell me why you've having panic attacks about a meet you didn't really give two shits about yesterday?"

Athos rested his forehead against Porthos' breastbone, breathing in his warm sweat-and-soap smell. "Treville hadn't gently reminded me what a fuckup I'm being yesterday."

"I'm pretty sure," Porthos said, his voice rumbling through where Athos rested his head, "that Treville did not, and would never, say any such fucking thing."

Athos pressed closer to him, craving the warmth, and Porthos' arms settled around him again. "It's complicated."

Treville was the only parent Athos had ever cared to have. His coach had literally pulled him out of the darkest place he'd ever been and given him a second chance, and Athos would do anything to prove to Treville that he deserved that trust.

_Your best is better than this._

He had done things much, much harder than this. He could do this.

"All right," Athos said, pushing away and wiping his eyes. "That's enough sitting around feeling sorry for myself."

"You sure?" Porthos asked, sitting back on his heels. His smile was easy, generous. "I got nowhere else to be tonight."

Athos smiled weakly at him. "Thank you."

"Always," Porthos said, grinning back. 

They got to their feet and gathered their things, and Athos sighed when he put his hand on the door handle. He did not want to leave the sanctuary of this studio.

"While we're in the safe place," Porthos said abruptly, catching his arm, "I gotta tell you--I'm not gonna be here Friday night."

Athos stared at him, his stomach dropping. "Why? We need to be here at nine on Saturday."

Porthos grimaced. "I know, I fuckin'--there's a speaker up at Harvard giving a big sociology talk, the department's driving all the majors out. I just got the email now." 

Athos remembered the way Porthos had been frowning at his phone, and he swallowed down another wave of panic.

"If you need me to stay--" Porthos began, but Athos cut him off.

"No," he said sharply, more sharply than he'd intended, and swallowed down another apology at Porthos' startled look. "No. No, you have a life that doesn't revolve around my shit and I want you to fucking live it."

"I do _choose_ to be involved in all your shit, y'know," Porthos reminded him, frowning. 

Athos swallowed. "I know. But--go, Porthos." He forced a smile up at him. "It's Harvard, right? You'll have a chance to ask them about the graduate program."

Porthos' worried look smoothed into a nervous grin. "Yeah, I mean, as long as we're there--"

Athos' let Porthos' excited chatter carry them home. Porthos talked about it very rarely, because he did not, quote, "want to fucking jinx it," but he was angling for the graduate sociology program at Harvard after they graduated. There were many reasons, Athos knew--the program was good, and Cambridge and Boston were hectic enough that he wouldn't get homesick for New York--but there was also the unspoken bonus that Athos and Aramis would potentially be staying in the Boston area, too.

Athos did not want to _say,_ _I'll go wherever you end up,_ but he did _think_ it. He thought it a lot whenever Porthos or Aramis talked about the future. He could teach or fence anywhere. His own plans were nebulous and portable, and his hometown held as many awful memories as good ones.

If they still wanted him a year and a half down the line, he'd follow them anywhere.

"And, yeah, I know, Cambridge is expensive as fuck," Porthos said as they walked through the dining hall, "but if we all split it--" 

Athos looked quickly at him, and Porthos did a very good impression of someone attempting to swallow his own tongue.

"I mean," he said a moment later, his face flushing a shade darker and his eyes fixed on the dinner line, "y'know, if we get shit together with Aramis and he's still going for HDS..."

"I got it," Athos said, fighting the smile that wanted to explode out of him like a fucking chestburster. Porthos thought of the future as _we._

Athos still had time to fuck it up, obviously, but at least the initial thought was there.

Porthos' mouth twitched at the corners, and he nodded, still determinedly not looking at Athos. "Well, good, then."

Athos savored the warmth in his chest, even as he felt a pang of grief somehwere deeper. After everything, _we_ still meant the two of them--and Aramis. It was as automatic for Porthos as it was for Athos.

Athos looked around the dining hall as they filled their plates. No mop-head of curly black hair, no stunning smile that made his heart skip several beats. He did see a table of fellow fencers, d'Artagnan among them, laughing and joking by the window, but no Aramis.

Porthos sighed, and Athos knew he'd come to the same conclusion.

"C'mon," Porthos said, and led him over to the table of fencers. Athos followed. It was better than eating alone.

\- -

He tried not to cling to Porthos over the next few days, storing him up for the night before the meet when he wouldn't have him.

He did not entirely succeed.

Luckily, Porthos bore it patiently, never once telling Athos to fuck off and give him some goddamn space. Athos didn't dare entertain the thought that Porthos needed him to the same degree, but he at least didn't seem to _mind._ He just patiently reassured Athos that he'd be back before the meet, and at least in time to get a little sleep. Athos held him to that--mostly because he wasn't sure he _could_ sleep without Porthos (not that night, at least, not before the meet) and he needed him at least for however long they could crash together.

Friday afternoon found Athos in Porthos' room, for a change, sitting on Porthos' bed as he watched him get dressed for the talk. 

"You should go out, or something," Porthos said over his shoulder, frowning into his closet. 

"Or something," Athos agreed.

Porthos shot him a grin, and Athos' stomach flipped pleasantly at the smile, combined with the flex of Porthos' back muscles. "No, I'm serious, though," Porthos went on, dragging out a mahogany-colored button-down that Athos _knew_ Aramis had made him buy. "Isn't there some party over in Montaigne tonight--I swear I just had an undershirt half a fucking second ago."

"Bookshelf," Athos said, and he watched Porthos tug the t-shirt on over his head with a slightly less pleasant lurch of his stomach. "And yes, there is. But Ninon told me she's going with Aramis, and I don't much feel like putting myself through the second circle of hell tonight, so--"

"Right," Porthos said, his dark eyes distant and worried. "Well, d'Artagnan, maybe?"

"You can leave me alone, you know," Athos said with a faint smile. "I will not stick my fingers in an electrical socket, or climb up onto high shelves, or--"

"I know you're not a fucking toddler," Porthos said, and he flashed him a warm look. "I just...know it's been a rough week, and you're nervous about tomorrow."

"I'll be fine."

"And I won't be here to make sure, is all."

"Is it fine if I just stay here, then?" Athos asked, trying to keep the question as casual as possible. 

Porthos blinked at him, looking up from the buttons of his shirt. "Yeah, of course."

"Fine, then." Athos swallowed, drawing his legs up to his chest, and he rested his chin on them. "I'll be fine, Porthos. You should wear the blue tie."

"Both these ties are blue."

"The light blue one, then."

"I'm pretty sure that one is actually yours."

Athos squinted at it. "Oh. Is it?"

Porthos grinned at him. "Well, it matches your eyes, so--"

Athos blinked up at him, and a slow flush bloomed in his cheeks. Porthos' smile turned slightly awkward, and he busied himself in putting on his tie. Athos ducked his head, pleased but not sure how to respond. 

They hadn't been easy, joking like this in three weeks. It felt...not wrong, with everything else that was messed up, but--strange. Like Athos wasn't sure if he was allowed to enjoy it.

"Okay," Porthos said crisply, "now that I've made things fucking awkward--"

"You did not," Athos sighed, looking up at him. "I don't know how to take a compliment. We've known this for three years."

Porthos' smile was slightly sad. "We have," he agreed, then turned to Athos. "Okay. Verdict?"

Athos looked him up and down. Porthos was wearing his nicest pair of jeans--a dark wash, pristine (to Athos' knowledge, they had been worn exactly three times, not counting this)--his neatest shoes, the light blue tie that was definitely Athos', now that he looked at it, and the rich, deep brown button-down that Aramis had been completely correct in saying made him look like a human bar of chocolate. 

_Fucking delicious,_ Athos practically heard Aramis humming in delight, like he had in real life, and Porthos had flipped him off in the fitting room and made the attendant give them a warning.

"Great," Athos said simply. He hoped his eyes would do the rest of the talking, since he didn't quite have the words.

Porthos' smile softened. "Yeah?"

"Very mature. Professorial, even. I'd hire you to TA a class looking like that."

"Oh, shut up," Porthos grumbled, but he was smiling as he glanced in his own mirror. "Okay. Right."

"You have to meet your ride," Athos reminded him.

Porthos glanced at his desk clock and swore. "Shit, you're fucking right--" He grabbed at his jacket and his keys, draping the former over his shoulder and stuffing the latter in his pocket. "You _sure_ you're gonna be okay?"

"I will be fine," Athos assured him, unkinking himself slightly from how he'd been curled up on the bed. "Go, make good impressions, enjoy your talk. I'll see you later. Wake me up at seven if I'm not up already."

Porthos patted down his pockets one more time, then nodded. "If you say so." He headed for the door--then bent down to brush a quick kiss over Athos' lips. Just as he passed the bed, like it was the most natural thing, like he barely had to think about it. "Love you, okay? See you later."

Athos swallowed and nodded, staring up at him. "Yeah," he said, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, you will."

Porthos grinned at him--one last flash of that brilliant, stellar grin--then ducked out, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Well.

Athos lay back on Porthos' bed and closed his eyes.

Everything smelled like Porthos in here--the clean, fresh scent of his soap, the sharp musk of his hair gel, and it was the second-most calming thing Athos could think of to do right now: just stay in Porthos' room and breathe him in.

It was also the only acceptable thing he could do. Because the _most_ calming thing would be to take the drugs Anne had given him, but he couldn't. He could not, _would not_ get stoned the night before the first meet of the year.

 _They_ are _medication,_ he could practically hear her saying--like the first time, and the time after that, when he'd still been hesitant, but had needed them so badly. _Do you trust your parents to find you a doctor who'd help with this? Do you want them to_ know?

Athos rolled over and grabbed blindly at one of Porthos' pillows. He buried his face in it, curling his body around it, and breathed. 

Good God, could he not function for an _hour_ without Porthos?

He'd thought shutting himself up in Porthos' room would be fine. He wouldn't fuck up d'Artagnan's head the night before the boy's first meet, he wouldn't be bothering Constance, he would be away from the fucking pills.

But he could feel curls of anxiety creeping in at the edges of his skull, could feel his hands shiver if he didn't hold onto the pillow tight enough, and the things in his room _were_ meant to help with that, weren't they?

No. Athos gritted his teeth. This was how it started last time. Excuses for needing them, excuses for keeping them, excuses for Anne to tie one more chemical leash around his neck. 

_Your best is better than this,_ Treville had said. And Porthos had kissed him, murmured _love you_ against his lips. They both deserved his best.

He hugged the pillow tighter to his chest and thought about fencing drills.

_En garde. Advance. Advance. Double retreat. Cross forward. Cross backward. Retreat. Retreat. Double advance. Again. Faster._

His phone buzzed, and Athos blinked his eyes open. It was much darker than he remembered it being, and dimly he wondered how long he'd been lying here fighting his own mind for control of his body.

It buzzed again, and he realized it was a call, not a text.

He fished into his pocket and came up with his buzzing, blinking phone. It was Ninon.

For a long moment, he debated not answering. Then he sighed and flipped the phone open. "Ninon?"

"I'm sorry for asking," she said right away, and he could hear the thudding noise of a party in the background.

Athos sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just go ahead."

"Aramis is sloppy drunk," Ninon sighed. "I can't get him home myself, could you...?"

There were so, so many things Athos wanted to say. The first was _no,_ as well as the second and third. The fourth thing was _how the fuck can you ask me that?_ Every second with Aramis was just obscurely painful now.

But that was all what he _wanted_ to say. He knew that when it came to him and Aramis, there was only one thing he _could_ say.

"I'm on my way," he said, and hated himself.

This was pathetic, he thought as he walked across campus. For fuck's sake, he had a second jacket under his arm because he knew Aramis wouldn't have one. Was this how the rest of his life was going to be? Unable to make himself say no to anything involving Aramis, and careening from one nervous breakdown to another?

All his bitter thoughts dissolved, however, as he came around the curve in the road and saw Ninon and Aramis sitting on the steps to Montaigne Hall. His gaze went straight to Aramis, who wore one of his favorite heartbreaking outfits--painted-on jeans and a black-and-neon Marilyn Monroe-print t-shirt--and he was slumped against Ninon's side, his face buried in her neck and her arm tight around his shoulders. 

Athos couldn't even muster the energy to be irritated that Aramis had gone out to get trashed the night before their first meet. Because Aramis did not, as Athos had suspected, have a jacket.

He just looked like a sad, lost child.

Ninon waved sadly at Athos as he climbed the steps. "Hey."

Aramis lifted his head slightly, and the look on his face wiped away any lingering bitterness in Athos' head.

He looked _miserable._

"Oh, no," Aramis muttered, turning his face into Ninon's neck. "No, no." 

It really hurt, Athos thought distantly as he knelt on the steps before them, that Aramis kept saying that whenever he saw Athos these days. 

"He's going to take you home," Ninon murmured, brushing her lips over Aramis' curls. "Is that all right?"

Aramis looked up at him through the fall of his hair, and Athos held out his fencing jacket like a peace offering.

"Home?" Athos asked, his throat tight with helpless affection. 

After a long moment, Aramis nodded, and Athos reached up to settle the jacket on his shoulders. Aramis let him, let Ninon and Athos pull the sleeves on him, just staring at Athos' face all the while. 

Those blurred brown eyes cut right to Athos' heart.

"Come on," he said when they'd done, and gently pulled Aramis to his feet. Aramis swayed, leaning heavily on Athos, and Athos caught him. "You going to be sick?"

"No," Aramis said, his voice dropping from his lips in one breath, and Athos took him at his word.

"I'll make it up to you?" Ninon said in a low voice as she stood up too, brushing off her skirt. Her smile was halfway between kindess and pity, and Athos sighed, leading Aramis down the stairs.

"Yeah, sure," he said over his shoulder. He knew he couldn't stay mad at her, either, so he didn't even bother.

Aramis was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked across campus. Athos tried not to pay too much attention to Aramis' warmth pressed up against him, because he didn't want to get used to it again--this was just a drunk call. This was just a drunk call. Aramis had not called him. Ninon had. Aramis probably didn't want Athos here any more than Athos wanted to be here right now.

(Only he _did,_ he did want to be here, with Aramis' arm around his shoulders and Aramis' forehead pressed to his temple, with Aramis' breath hot on his neck, because even when he smelled like girls and was sweating vodka, Athos loved Aramis with every fiber of his being--)

"Oh, fuck," Aramis said against Athos' neck when they reached the stand of trees at the base of Alexander's hill, and Athos sighed. He hooked his arm around Aramis' waist and reached up to push Aramis' hair back from his face, and held him while he was noisily sick into the bushes.

It felt so painfully normal that Athos could cry.

"Goddammit," Aramis groaned when he'd finished, and Athos hushed him, pulling his body flush along Athos' side again and starting up the hill.

"Let's get some water in you," he said, trying to keep his voice even and soft. "Come on."

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Aramis said, reaching up to wipe at his mouth with the back of his other hand. "Not tonight."

"I believe you," Athos said. They reached the top of the steps, and Athos swiped his ID and pulled the door open. 

Aramis let out a harsh breath, resting his head against Athos' again as they walked to the elevator. "You shouldn't," he said, his voice in Athos' ear. "You shouldn't ever, Athos."

Athos punched the button and ran his hand in circles over Aramis' shoulder, the way they usually did to calm him. "I rarely do," he said, to assure him. "But tonight, yes."

They rode the elevator in silence, Athos trying to ignore the knots twisting in his stomach and Aramis breathing softly against Athos' neck.

"Do you want me to take you to your room?" Athos asked him when they reached their floor. Aramis nodded, and Athos helped him down the hall.

He hadn't been in Aramis' room in months, he realized as his hand turned the knob, probably since move-in this fall--but it was too late to turn back now.

It was dark, but light came in through the open window from the moon and the streetlamp, and their blue and orange canceled each other out to leave a pale, colorless glow that dimly lit piles of clothes and books and makeup.

Athos navigated carefully around the clutter on the floor and sat Aramis down on his bed, kneeling at the side of it. Aramis' water bottle sat on the floor by his bed, thankfully full; Athos held it up, and he helped Aramis uncap it and hold it to his mouth.

It was a wide-mouth bottle, and a trail of water trickled down the corner of Aramis' mouth when he lowered it. Without thinking, Athos reached up to wipe it away, just tracing his thumb over Aramis' chin for the briefest of moments.

"There," he said, his voice shaky with his own nerve. "Feel better?"

Aramis sighed, shaking his head. In the semi-dark, his skin glowed a ghostly white, and his dark eyes were unreadable. He looked like he was already gone, and Athos' chest ached at the thought.

"How hard, Athos," Aramis said, his voice half-harsh and half-whispered, "do I have to push you away to make you leave me _alone?"_

Oh.

Athos sank back onto his heels, his throat tight and his eyes prickling. But it was dark, and they were both exhausted, and how drunk was Aramis, anyway? Would he even remember this conversation tomorrow?

Even if he didn't, Athos owed him nothing less than honesty, right now.

"Just a nudge," he said softly. "If I thought you really meant it."

Aramis stared at him.

And then he did the very last thing Athos expected.

Aramis half-fell forward into Athos' arms, and he buried his face in Athos' neck, wrapping his arms around him and _clinging._ Athos let out a startled breath, shocked and relieved all at once, his own arms curling tight around Aramis' torso (he felt different, harder and tenser, and was it any wonder, when Athos had barely seen him eat in three weeks?). 

"No," Aramis whispered, his voice muffled and cracking, and Athos felt hot tears against his skin. "No, Athos, no, no, no."

Athos held him. There was nothing else he could do. 

Three weeks of fucking agony, and now Aramis was crying in his arms, holding him like he was afraid Athos would disappear into thin air. Athos' whole body trembled with a release of tension so profound he thought he might shake apart.

"Athos, please don't leave me," Aramis whispered against his skin, and Athos stroked his hair, murming calming nonsense as he own eyes stung with tears.

"I won't," he promised, easing up onto his knees and settling Aramis back onto the bed. "I won't, I promise, Aramis, I won't." 

He nudged Aramis gently backward toward the center of the bed, and Aramis moved as obediently as if he'd had strings--but he kept a tight hand on Athos' shirt, and pulled Athos onto the bed as he slid back. "Okay," Athos said soothingly, following, and there they were, both still fully dressed (still wearing their shoes, even), lying in Aramis' bed.

Aramis pressed close to him, curled up tight along Athos' body, his arm over Athos' chest and his head on Athos' shoulder. Athos could barely believe this was happening. He covered Aramis' arm with his and wrapped his other arm tightly around Aramis' shoulder, his chest overflowing with care and concern and overwhelming love, and Aramis shuddered out a relieved sob against Athos' chest.

"Stay, please, just stay," Aramis whispered. "I don't want you to go, I don't, I didn't mean it."

"I'm staying," Athos murmured, his heart _aching_ with how much he meant it. "I'm staying, I promise."

"You _promise?"_ Aramis asked, and there was something painfully vulnerable in his voice.

Athos kissed his hair. He couldn't help himself. "I promise, Aramis."

Aramis pressed his face to Athos' chest, and Athos could feel tears soaking through his shirt again--could feel Aramis' lips moving, but couldn't make out the words. He didn't make a sound, though, and Athos could sympathize.

Words were bursting at his lips, pressing at his throat, aching to be said-- _I love you, we love you, we've missed you so much--_

Athos forced it down and contented himself with kissing Aramis' hair again. He couldn't say it, not now, when Aramis had been too drunk to walk himself home half an hour ago. Not now when he was crying and clinging to Athos like he was about to get up and leave.

Athos had never seen Aramis this vulnerable before, the way he'd been for the last three weeks. He'd always appreciated how confident Aramis had been in wearing his heart on his sleeves; he'd never realized before how easy that made it for things to wound him so deeply, when he left himself so unprotected.

Aramis had stopped crying, and Athos could feel his body relaxing against Athos', piece by piece. He was fighting it, though, his fingers tightening on Athos every time he jerked out of a doze--like he worried Athos wouldn't be there when he woke.

"You should sleep," Athos told him, stroking Aramis' hair with the hand around his shoulder. "You've looked tired for days."

Aramis nodded drowsily, burrowing his face into Athos even more. "You'll stay?" he asked again, his voice blurry with sleep, and his fingers flexed against Athos' ribs.

Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat. "For as long as you want."

Aramis let out a relieved sigh, and Athos felt any lingering tension disappear from his body. Within moments, Aramis was asleep in his arms.

He'd never felt this _protective_ of someone before--neither d'Artagnan nor Thomas, not even Porthos had inspired this same kind of fierce, tender care. He just wanted to hold Aramis to him and keep the rest of the world away, to hurt _everyone_ who'd ever made Aramis this terrified of loss. 

As he held guard over Aramis' sleeping form, Athos felt himself starting to sink into sleep. He hadn't thought he would at all tonight--worrying about the meet, about Porthos, about Aramis.

But Aramis was here, holding onto him. He hadn't flinched away from Athos' touch tonight; he hadn't said to leave him alone. He'd asked him to stay.

He could stay, Athos thought, and drifted off. 

\- -

His phone buzzing insistently against his thigh woke him. Athos twitched awake, blinking in the dawn light coming in through the open window--he thought he'd lowered the shade. 

Then he felt a familiar, lean body pressed against him, and Athos remembered. No, he hadn't lowered the shade, because he wasn't in his own room.

He'd fallen asleep with Aramis.

Aramis, who was tucked up against his body, exactly how he'd fallen asleep. Athos could see his face, smooth and unworried, eyeliner smudged from crying. It was probably all over Athos' t-shirt, but he really couldn't care less. He had Aramis again. 

His phone buzzed again, and Athos winced as he realized it was probably Porthos wondering where the hell he was. He glanced over at Aramis' desk, and saw in the glow from his iHome that it was nearly seven-thirty. 

Aramis stirred against him, stretching slightly, and Athos' heartbeat spiked uncomfortably.

He was still not _entirely_ sure how drunk Aramis had been last night. Would he remember what he'd said? What Athos had said? 

Aramis sighed, rubbing his cheek against Athos' shirt, and his lips curved in a drowsy smile. He turned his head, pressing a short, soft kiss to Athos' chest, and a jolt of adrenaline spiked from the pit of Athos' stomach all the way to his fingertips.

And then Aramis stopped, and went very still. He blinked his eyes open, and then, in a rippling wave of tightening muscles, his whole body went rigid.

Athos' stomach lurched. No. Oh, no. Oh, please, not again.

Aramis pushed himself upright, off Athos' body, and his back was a solid line of tension. 

_Not again._

Athos sat up, his head swimming with the confused, frightened rush of anxious chemicals pushing through his blood. "Good morning."

"Morning," Aramis said, his voice tight and trembling. "You didn't have to stay."

"You asked me to."

Aramis let out a humorless huff of air. "I thought you knew better than to listen to anything I say when I'm drunk." It was cutting, purposefully emotionless--the way Aramis did when he was trying to hurt.

Bile flooded up at the back of his throat, and Athos swallowed, hard. "I guess I never know better when it comes to you," he said neutrally, trying to control his shaking, trying to keep his head above the wave of disappointment that threatened to drown him. He shook his head and swung his legs off the bed, rubbing his hands over his face.

Aramis tilted his head towards him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Athos paused. There were so many things he wanted to say. Finally, he rested his elbows on his knees, did _not_ look over his shoulder at Aramis, and chose his words very carefully. "I thought I knew better, is all," he said. "I thought I knew you well enough to think you'd...appreciate the company."

It was such a fucking inadequate way to say _I thought you still cared._

Aramis didn't say anything, didn't even move, and Athos couldn't look at him. His phone buzzed again, and Athos dug it out of his pocket.

He had five messages from Porthos, and two missed calls.

[1:24am - hey just got back. glad u wised up and went to bed :) see ya in the a.m.]

[7:05am - mornin. this is ur wakeup call. if u don't text back i'll b in in 5.]

[7:10am - did u go eat already?]

[ _Missed call: Porthos_ ]

[7:17am - athos answer the phone where are u]

[ _Missed call: Porthos_ ]

[7:22am - babe im tryin not to freak out but srsly where the fuck are you]

"Is that Porthos?" Aramis asked quietly.

Athos swallowed. "Yes. He's...concerned." Because for all Porthos knew, Athos had disappeared down some hole last night. He could be half-dead from alcohol poisoning again, or passed out in some stranger's bed, or any one of a number of things that it was all perfectly plausible Athos had done in a fit of anxiety.

Aramis' head tilted towards him again. "Because you're with me?"

 _Of course not,_ Athos wanted to say and didn't. _He'd be jumping for joy if he knew that._ "Because he doesn't know _where_ I am." Athos started to open a message to reply, then paused and added, trying to keep his voice free of judgment, "We've been feeling that way a lot lately."

Aramis curled in even tighter on himself. "You should go find him," he said, barely audible.

Athos closed his eyes, his fingers clenching around his phone. "You could come with me. We could get breakfast." He tried to keep the _pleading_ out of his voice. "Together."

He felt a quick, trembling motion through the bed, though whether it was Aramis just moving or Aramis vehemently shaking his head, Athos didn't know.

But Aramis didn't say no, didn't say yes--didn't say anything, for a long breath, and Athos sat frozen, waiting. 

"I can't," Aramis whispered.

Athos let out the breath he'd been holding. He shouldn't have been surprised. He shouldn't have been _disappointed,_ after the week they'd had.

But he was, still.

"I'll see you later, Aramis," he sighed, and pushed himself upright. There was nothing more to say that wouldn't end up cruel, nothing more to _do_ that wouldn't feel like pressure, or pushing, and Athos would cut his own hand off before he pushed Aramis into something he didn't want.

Aramis didn't make a move to stop him--didn't even watch him go. 

And for some reason, that hurt the worst of all.

The hallway was quiet and deserted, but the stark fluorescent bulbs made Athos' head pound, after the close semi-dark of Aramis' room. He hadn't had a drop of alcohol, but _he_ was the one who felt hungover.

He walked a few doors down the hall to Porthos' room and knocked. He heard quick footsteps inside, and then the door jerked open. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Porthos said the moment he saw Athos' face, looking utterly relieved and utterly irritated. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"It's a long story," Athos sighed.

"It had better fucking be, and there better be fucking dancing unicorns or some shit, Athos, because after what happened the last time you stopped answering your phone--"

Porthos broke off abruptly as Aramis' door swung open, and Aramis came out. He didn't say anything, didn't even look up--he just hurried down the hall to the landing and disappeared down the stairs.

Athos sighed and turned back to Porthos, who was looking at him with a very strange expression. There had to have been something on Athos' face when he saw Aramis, or something in the way Aramis hadn't even looked up, like he knew he'd see them there--because when Athos looked at Porthos, Porthos _knew._

"Athos," Porthos asked, his voice low, "did you spend the night in Aramis' room?"

His dark eyes were wide, worried but almost _hopeful,_ and Athos couldn't stand it.

He pushed Porthos inside his room and followed him, and firmly closed the door behind him. "Yes," he said, turning back to Porthos. "And absolutely nothing has fucking changed, so don't get excited."

Porthos stared at him. "What happened?"

Athos took two steps and sat down heavily on Porthos' bed. He did not want to stand anymore. He was tired, and it _hurt,_ and he did not want to have to go through this day with all this in his head. But this was his fucking life, apparently.

"Ninon called me," he said. "He was too drunk to walk home, so I went and got him. And he asked me to stay, so I did." Athos stared at his hands. "Then he regretted it in the morning."

That was as much as he felt capable of saying. This morning, at least, he didn't think he could tell Porthos everything that they'd said to each other--how they'd been even a little bit honest with each other for the first time in weeks, how painfully sad and lonely Aramis had seemed, how he'd clung to Athos and then pushed away the minute he was sober.

Porthos sat down beside him, tentatively, like he wasn't sure how Athos would react. Athos reacted by leaning into him, and Porthos sighed and put an arm around his shoulders. "You look like hell."

"Good. I'd like my face to accurately reflect my experiences."

"Did you sleep at all?"

Athos closed his eyes, Porthos' shoulder warm under his cheek. "As well as I always sleep when he's there."

He wished he hadn't said that the minute it left his mouth, but Porthos sighed and squeezed his shoulder, and Athos could relax a litle. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Athos reached up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose until his head cleared a bit. "What about you? Tell me you rested, please."

"Me? Yeah, I came home and crashed." Porthos' arm tightened around him, and Athos almost cherished the note of irritation that came next. "Then I woke up and had a fucking heart attack looking for _someone_ \--"

Athos shoved his shoulder into Porthos', and he broke off with a faint chuckle. Athos shook his head and stretched slightly. "I didn't want to wake him wriggling around for my phone. Not that it did any good, but--"

"It's okay," Porthos sighed, and squeezed his shoulder one more time before letting him go. "We should start getting ready, yeah?"

Athos nodded glumly and let Porthos haul him to his feet. The shower marginally revived him, and a strong cup of coffee downstairs did the rest. He had no appetite whatsoever, but Athos had no intention of passing out on the fencing strip, so he dutifully shoveled food in his mouth under Porthos' approving eye.

Aramis was nowhere in sight, and Athos felt the familiar worried hum of _where is he?_ creeping in at the back of his brain. They'd seen him go for the stairs, but they hadn't seen him come back up, and he wasn't here...

"Maybe he went up while we were in the shower," Porthos said, reading Athos' mind as usual--or reading the way Athos gazed worriedly around the dining hall. "You seen the puppy yet?"

"Yes," Athos said, just as his eyes fell on a bleary-eyed d'Artagnan slouching into the dining hall. "Feed him, will you?" he asked as he stood up. 

Porthos rolled his eyes, but his lips were curling in the hint of a smile. "I fed him yesterday. I told you, we couldn't get a puppy unless we were both gonna put the work in."

"I will take him for a walk later," Athos said with a perfectly straight face, and the flash of Porthos' grin steadied him more than he would ever admit. "I'll be right back."

Porthos' dark eyes zeroed in on him. "You okay?"

"Yes," Athos said, being sure to look him in the eye. "I just want to see if Aramis will walk over with us."

Porthos' gaze softened with sympathetic understanding, but his brows were drawn tightly together. "Athos, he's not gonna come," he said softly. Like he was trying to spare Athos the rejection.

Athos swallowed. "I know that. I want to check anyway."

Porthos leaned back in his chair, still frowning, but eventually he sighed and nodded. "All right, see you in a bit."

Athos took his tray and walked over to the dish return, catching d'Artagnan's eye and jerking his head to where Porthos' sat as he passed him. D'Artagnan nodded sleepily, raising a hand in a wave, and at least he, Athos thought as he headed upstairs, seemed like he was ready to fence once he woke up a little.

It was not possible for Athos' head to be farther from the fencing meet right now. _I just want to check on him,_ he told himself. _Check on him, and then I will have my head in the game._

But Aramis wasn't in his room, as Athos learned after he knocked for two minutes, then dared to just open the door and stick his head in. It looked only as rumpled as it had been when he left this morning--had Aramis not been back at all? Where _was_ he?

Athos paced back to the landing, frustrated and worried. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, because ordinarily he would just _text_ him--but no, Aramis wouldn't answer, would he?

As Athos stood there, indecision locking his muscles, he heard a strange sound from the bathroom. One of the showers was running--it usually was, at this time of day--but no, there it was again, something else under the steady rush of the shower.

Athos stepped carefully into the bathroom, as noiselessly as he could, his phone still held limply in his hand. He walked past the cubbies full of shampoo and soap, around the sinks, and there was the row of showers.

The far door was closed, the shower there running, and he could see under the door--that was Aramis' black-and-neon shirt crumpled on the ground in the stall with Aramis' black jeans: the clothes he'd worn to the party, the clothes he'd slept in.

Athos felt a moment of relief, just for finding him, and then the sound came again. Closer, Athos could pick out the specific parts--a hoarse rush of air, choked and painful, and a short, hiccuping gasp on its tail. Then all the air from that breath pushed out again with a low sound-- _sob,_ Athos' mind supplied helpfully, and then it crashed in on him.

Aramis was crying.

Gasping, tearing sobs, audible even over the sound of the water and through the door of the stall, coming over and over again--and when he'd try to stifle them, sucking in short, agonized breaths, after a moment's silence they'd come pouring out again in shudders, worse than before. Athos could picture Aramis' face as clearly as his own--twisted up to keep the sounds in, his eyes squeezed shut so the tears would have no place to go but out--because he knew these sounds; he'd seen him cry like this before.

When his grandmother died last year, Aramis had cried for hours after his mother's phone call.

Only then, he'd been wrapped in Porthos' arms, sobbing into his chest as Porthos rocked him slowly back and forth and Athos held his hand. (He could still feel Aramis' fingers digging into his, so hard Athos' hand had gone numb.) He hadn't been alone, sobbing uncontrollably in the shower so no one would see him cry.

Athos' phone buzzed in his hand. He jumped, adrenaline jolting every one of his limbs, and nearly dropped it. _Treville_ flashed on the screen, and Athos swore a blue streak in his head. The one call he could literally not afford to skip.

He hurried out of the bathroom, his heart pounding as he fumbled the phone to his ear. "Yes, sir?" he asked as soon as he was out of earshot _(Aramis won't hear,_ his traitorous thoughts supplied, trying to be helpful, _he's crying too hard to pay any attention,_ but all that did was make Athos' heartache worse).

"Athos," Treville said, sounding tenser than usual. "Sorry to call you early, but I need you down here, and I need you five minutes ago."

Athos swore aloud this time, looking desperately back into the bathroom. "Yes, sir, in a minute, I swear, I really have to--"

"Just have to _run,"_ Treville said over him, sharply. "There are some very kind representatives of the United States Fencing Association here, and they would like to meet the captain of my squad."

Athos' heart thudded to a stop in his chest. "They would?" he asked, barely hearing his own voice.

"They're very interested in how a junior who took a year off from the sport has managed to distinguish himself so highly."

Athos swallowed, blood rushing to his face so fast it made his head spin. "I see."

Treville went on in a carefully neutral tone. "They're very impressed with our facilities, they're impressed with what I've told them of your team, and they're already impressed with you and they haven't even met you. This could be very good for all of us, Athos. I need you here." 

Athos took a deep breath, staring at the wall and seeing nothing. In one ear, Treville's expectant silence; in the other, faintly, over the water, the muted sounds of Aramis breaking down.

"Athos? Are you there?"

Athos cast one last look toward the bathroom. 

Then he forced himself away, slamming his shoulder into the fire door and taking the stairs two at a time. "I'm coming, sir."

He hoped the dropping sensation in his stomach was just the vertigo of spiraling down the stairs, and not making the worst decision of his life.

Porthos and d'Artagnan looked up in surprise as he came skidding up to the table. "Where's the fire?" d'Artagnan asked through a mouthful of eggs.

Porthos took one look at Athos' face and half-started up out of his chair. "Did you find him? Is he okay?"

Athos had never been more relieved that Porthos was fucking psychic.

"Yes and no, in that order," he panted, his chest burning from the cold air in the stairwell. "Treville called, I have to--the USFA's here, I have to go, but he's--I can't just--"

"We've got him, go," Porthos said, kicking back his chair and standing up. "Go, just go--"

Athos' chest loosened slightly, and he gave Porthos the most grateful look he could muster in the three seconds it took to dash around the table to grab his coat. "Thank you," he got out, throwing his jacket on.

The impulse came--from the relief, the comfort he knew it would give--and for once, Athos obeyed.

He stretched up and pressed a swift kiss to Porthos' cheek. In the middle of the dining hall.

No one looked, no one probably even noticed, but from the wide-eyed look of awe Porthos gave him, Athos might as well have dropped to one knee and proposed right there.

They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, and Athos felt unsteady on his feet. There had been a very seismic shift under his feet just now--a small earthquake that had only happened for him.

"No," d'Artagnan said firmly, giving Athos a shove in the small of his back. "No making goo-goo eyes at each other, not now, you have to go--"

"Right," Porthos said, shaking himself. His eyes were still incredibly soft, even as he pushed a chair out of Athos' way and pulled him around toward the door. "Right, just--you go, and we'll--"

"Yes," Athos said helplessly, urgency cascading down over him again as he caught sight of the clock. "Porthos, I'm sorry, I--"

"For the last fucking time," Porthos interrupted him with the fondest and most exasperated look he ever had, "you do not need to apologize to me, just go and we'll handle things here. See you at nine."

Athos swallowed down everything else he could feel bursting at his lips-- _take care of yourself, take care of him, I'm sorry I'm selfish and leaving, I'm sorry I'm a coward and can't face him--_

"Go," Porthos and d'Artagnan said in unison, and finally Athos just did what they said and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, everything's starting to come to a head, isn't it? The meet is a big thing and will probably take me some time, because haha, my boss is out of the country for TWO weeks and not the one I had previously thought. Also, my family is moving house next Thursday, so a lot of my focus will be going there--but I've literally been looking forward to this next chapter since starting the story, so every spare second will go to it, I'm sure. Thank y'all so much for sticking around. As always, you can find me [on the tumblrs.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fencing tournament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your wonderful patience. Your messages got me through.
> 
> ETA: OOPS I was half-asleep posting this last night so I forgot warnings. Warnings in this chapter for a viscerally-described panic attack.

[Text message: Porthos]  
[yo how'd it go?]

[talked. did not vomit all over self. best i could do. find aramis?]

[yyyes n no]

[do not fucking do this to me porthos did you find him or not]

[couldnt find him when we got upstairs]

[so why the fuck did you say YES then]

[im TYPING athos jfc]  
[he went to constance]  
[dart txted when we were freakin out n she said she had him]  
[she's bringin him to the meet in a bit]

[did she say anything else?]

[u know how she is]  
[said to mind our own fuckin bsnss n that we werent his fuckin bbsitters]  
[but]  
[y'know]  
[constancey]  
[i dont think theres anything else we can do...]

[fine.]

[we're just coming over ok]

[fine. i'm in the fieldhouse helping set up.]

[meet u there]  
[love u]

[you, too.]

\- - -

So as not to disturb the rest of the sports building staff setting up for the meet, Athos had his panic attack quietly, in the corner behind the bleachers.

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to breathe as every muscle in his body shook. Porthos' texts flashed like police car lights in his head, spinning and whooping and making him dizzy-- _couldn't find him, mind our own fucking business, not his babysitters, not his babysitters_ \--

 _Love you, you too,_ Athos thought hysterically, resting his forehead against his knees and rocking slowly back and forth. He felt like the worst sort of traitor. Aramis had been breaking down in the fucking shower, and he and Porthos were texting sweet nothings. Only Athos had even known he was hurting, and Athos had abandoned him. 

He'd barely been coherent enough to talk to the USFA representatives. Not even Treville's looming, steady presence had been enough to drag Athos' mind into the present. He'd talked mechanically about the team as they asked him questions, his thoughts back in the dorm, in Aramis' bed, in the shower. 

The reps had been very nice, very polite, and very clearly expecting to see something good. Standing there with Treville, still trying to catch his breath from scrambling across campus, Athos was abruptly, viscerally aware that he hadn't really _fenced_ in three weeks. He could still discuss the team--their specialties, their records in all their weapons, their rehearsal schedule and upcoming events, in great detail and with as much pride as he could manage in the moment, but he felt like he couldn't speak about himself at all. 

So naturally, when they asked him about _his_ season, he went completely blank. 

Thank God for Treville, who'd stepped in and smoothly told them Athos didn't self-promote well. It was Treville who'd rattled off Athos' record and praised how well he'd been coaching the team, standing there with a hand on Athos' shoulder like a proud parent.

It had felt...odd. Good-odd. Athos' biological parents were indifferent to him at best; he had never _had_ a proud parent, so he wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. But if there was anyone he'd allow to treat him as such, it would be Treville. 

He'd felt an awful squirming in his stomach as Treville confidently told the representatives that the team was going to do well this year. He didn't want to disappoint his coach--or the people who held the team's future in their hands--or the _team._

So here he was, cowering behind the bleachers so no one would see him breaking down. 

They were all going to see him fail, they were all going to realize he was a fraud, he was going to disappoint Treville, disappoint everyone. Porthos would know he could do better _(Porthos staring blankly at him in the dining hall, and Athos could still feel Porthos' cheek against his lips)_ and Aramis would never speak to him again anyway, especially if he found out Athos had heard him sobbing and _walked away--_

 _Get a grip,_ he screamed at himself in his head. _Get a grip, get a fucking grip, you're a pathetic excuse for a fencer, for a captain, for a friend--_ But that just made the terrified gasping shaking worse, of course it did, abusing himself wasn't going to get him anywhere, why did he always _do_ this to himself?

Athos fisted his hands in his hair, dropping his phone with a clatter. The dull tug of his fingers at the roots, against his scalp, focused his pain. He couldn't unclench his hands. He couldn't look up. He could just sit there, letting the pain ebb and flow over him as he forced himself to breathe through it.

He remembered the last time he'd been panicking like this--he'd hung up on his mother and Aramis had sat down beside him on the steps outside, held him, told him to breathe.

 _Aramis._ He gulped at air, trying to swallow the guilt making his throat dry and tight. _I left you for the team's sake, I swear._

The team.

The team should all be arriving soon; they'd be up in the locker rooms, changing.

They couldn't see him like this. _Nobody_ could see him like this.

Athos took a deep breath, then another. His heart had stopped racing--he didn't feel any _calmer,_ but maybe he was used to forcing his body into submission by sheer force of will.

He gritted his teeth and stood up. His knees wobbled beneath him, and he reached out to steady himself against the bleachers, breathing steadily until his stance stabilized. Maybe he was going to be absolute shit in the tournament today, and as much as he hated that thought, he could accept it--but he was at least going to be able to _stand._

"Athos? Athos!"

Porthos' voice calling broke over him like a wave, and Athos took another deep breath.

He drew his shoulders back, lifted his head, and strode out from his safe, dark corner. Porthos and d'Artagnan were standing by the doors on the far end of the fieldhouse, looking around, and Athos waved to catch their attention. D'Artagnan nudged Porthos and pointed, and Athos could visibly mark the relief on Porthos' face when his friend caught sight of him.

"What were you doing in the corner?" d'Artagnan asked curiously as he drew nearer.

"Having a moment," Athos replied shortly, looking over their shoulders and into the foyer. "Did Constance--"

"She said she'd be on her way," Porthos said. His eyes searched Athos' face, and a faint line appeared between his eyebrows. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." He wasn't. But he didn't want to go into it in front of d'Artagnan. Or at all, really. Athos swallowed and pushed a hand through his hair. "We should go change, start warming up."

"Yeah, all right," Porthos said, far more gently than Athos would have wanted him to, and jerked his head over his shoulder. "Let's go, then."

Athos tried to compose himself as the three of them headed up the stairs. Porthos and d'Artagnan were clearly being careful with him--if he was this visibly shaken, he didn't want to face the team. They'd think something was wrong (not that something _wasn't,_ but he couldn't let his own issues become theirs).

He must have seemed steady enough to stand up to questioning, because Porthos sidled in close to him in the locker room as they changed into their gear. "So, the USFA reps. Good news?"

Athos swallowed down the slick chill of fear in his throat. "Pressure. Treville talked me up."

Porthos bumped his shoulder against Athos' before pulling on his jacket. "I know you never believe me when I tell you this, but you _are_ worth talking up."

Athos shook his head, sitting down heavily on the bench. His shoes felt like lead as he put them on. "I've barely picked up my foil in three weeks."

Porthos frowned and turned to him. "That's not right."

Athos looked up at him, unable to keep the bitter smile from his face. "Really?"

He could see Porthos thinking back, his frown deepening as he remembered all the times Athos had simply led practices, or refereed, instead. When he glanced up at Athos again, Athos could tell how worried he was. "Babe, why haven't you been fencing?"

The endearment warmed him to the core, even as it sent his heart skittering nervously again. Athos gave a half-despairing huff of breath and dropped his head into his hands. "I couldn't focus. Couldn't be sure I wouldn't lose it. Of course I fucking regret it now, I'm going to be absolute shit--"

"Don't talk down about yourself like that," Porthos said fiercely, dropping to his knees on the tile beside the bench. Their lockers were in the farthest row back, so there was no one else to see. Athos could still hear the banging of the other lockers closer to the door, hear the laughing and chatter of his teammates, but they seemed curiously muted with Porthos giving him that fiery-eyed, determined look. "You are the best fencer on this team, Athos. You might be a little rusty, but you'll get in your groove a few bouts in. I _promise_ you."

Athos' hands twitched on his knees. He ached to reach out and hold Porthos' hand, touch his face, _something._

And he still couldn't get Aramis out of his thoughts. Aramis' locker was right next to his; had he been up here to change yet? Was he going to be here at all?

Porthos followed his gaze to Aramis' locker. He sighed, then, turning back to Athos--and to the guilty thrill of Athos' heart, covered Athos' hands with his. "We probably shouldn't be thinking about him right now," he said quietly. "Seems like you've got enough to worry about, y'know?"

Athos closed his eyes and nodded. He could feel Porthos' pulse beating gently in his thumbs, pressed against Athos' wrist. "I left him, Porthos."

Porthos sighed. "He left us first," he said quietly.

Athos blinked his eyes open to stare at Porthos, and the two of them shared a long, unhappy look.

Fingertips drumming lightly on a locker jerked them out of the moment. Athos and Porthos both jumped and looked up at a slightly shamefaced d'Artagnan, who stood at the end of the row. "Pretty much everyone's ready," he said, looking apologetic. "Warmups?"

Athos sighed and nodded, pushing a hand through his hair. "Yeah."

"You ready to go?" Porthos asked in a low voice. 

He snorted and shook his head, then got to his feet. "No, but when has that ever stopped us?"

To Athos' overwhelming relief, for the first time in three weeks, "pretty much everyone" included Aramis. Athos' eyes zeroed in on him as they and the last of the stragglers trooped into the practice room. He was here. He'd made it.

He was...all right?

He was dry-eyed, at least, at the back of the room with the two senior épéeists, in quiet conversation. He glanced over when the three of them entered, then looked away, turning back to his conversation without missing a beat. He stood tall, straight--he wasn't slouched or curled in on himself like he'd been lately.

He seemed fine.

Athos wasn't sure if he should be relieved or even more worried. But Porthos was right--they couldn't be worrying about Aramis right now. Athos had spent the majority of his time over the past three weeks worrying about Aramis. It hadn't done him much good. He needed to focus on _this._

"Good morning, everyone," he announced as he made his way up to the front of the room. The general chorus of greetings warmed his chest more than the cup of coffee he'd had that morning, and Athos could smile without needing to fake it as he turned to face them all. "Let's warm up, and then I'll have a few things to say."

He needed the time, he thought as he led them through stretching and drills, to figure out exactly _what_ to say. They deserved to know that there were representatives from the highest governing body of their sport in the country present; they deserved to have this conveyed in the simplest and least intimidating way possible. It was that last part Athos wasn't quite sure how to handle.

When they finished, and all turned to him expectantly, Athos still hadn't made up his mind. He caught Porthos' eye across the room, and Porthos half-grimaced and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 

He had no idea, either. Better just to get it over with, then.

"Before we go out there, I just wanted to let you all know what's happening today," Athos said, looking around at them. "The other schools should have arrived by now, so we'll go down and get our schedule in a few. Treville asked me to remind everyone not to start any fights."

A laugh chased its way around the room, then d'Artagnan piped up. "Where _is_ Treville?"

Athos took a deep breath. "I was getting to that. We have some guests from the USFA here today; Treville's showing them around." An excited murmur chased its way around the room, and Athos had to speak up slightly to add, "They'll be observing today."

"For _Paris?"_ d'Artagnan blurted out, his eyes lighting up hugely, and the excited chatter rose to a clamor. 

_Paris,_ everyone was saying, _holy shit, it's so early--they scout all the time, though, keeping their eyes open, I bet they'll be at_ every _tournament this year--_

Yes, Athos thought dryly, that was exactly what he was afraid of. "We don't know that," he said loudly over the buzz of chatter, and everyone calmed slightly to look at him. "Paris is still two summers off, after all."

"But it's the _Olympics,"_ d'Artagnan said delightedly, and that set everyone off again. Athos loved the boy's enthusiasm, but right now, it was the _last_ thing he needed. 

He glanced over at Porthos again, and his best friend shrugged, spreading his hands with a look that said _well, you tried._ He hadn't, not really, but Athos would gladly take the commiseration offered.

"All right," he said loudly, calling everyone back to attention. "Let's try to stay focused, everyone. They will _probably_ not be looking for any raw and untested collegiate fencers to add to the Olympics roster, but on the off chance they are, I wanted you all to know. Anything else before we head down?" He looked around, making sure no one had an unasked question on their face, then nodded, satisfied with what he saw. "Good. Hands in, then, everyone."

It was the oldest tradition in the fencing team's history, and no matter how awful or anxious he felt, Athos would never skip it. Everyone hurried into a huddle, jostling the first years and first-timers into the circle, as well, and Athos moved to meet them. They left a space in the circle for him, and Athos was _not_ going to break down and cry at that gesture as he stepped in and completed the link.

Porthos stuck out his right hand, and everyone else reached out and covered his. Athos lay his hand on top of theirs, and felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with the motion.

"All for one," Athos announced.

"And one for all!" the team cheered, throwing their hands up.

And they all did, Athos realized, as they all broke apart and moved to the door, talking, joking, laughing. Everyone had been in that circle. Even Aramis. It had seemed so normal, Athos barely paid attention, but Aramis, he realized, had stood next to Porthos.

His usual place. He just stepped up naturally--muscle memory, maybe; the whole team had moved so fluidly into the circle that perhaps Aramis had just been swept up in it. 

From the look on Porthos' face, though, when Athos turned to see him--there had been something. Porthos wouldn't be looking towards the door Aramis had just disappeared through with that aching look of wistfulness otherwise. 

It made him hurt, a little bit.

He tried to shake it off as they headed downstairs, in a pack of loud, chattering teenagers. Porthos was looking fixedly after Aramis, and Athos wished there was more he coudl do than press his shoulder against Porthos' in silent support.

Aramis split off from the team as soon as they reached the fieldhouse level. He moved like he had a mission--like he was looking for someone. 

Athos made to follow him--the look on Aramis' face was not one of his healthier ones--but Treville's voice echoed in the lobby. "Athos!"

As he turned automatically toward the sound, he saw Constance working the front desk. She was directing a group of visiting parents with a smile, and when they moved off toward the fieldhouse, she looked back towards the front doors, and saw Athos.

The smile dropped off her face. 

Athos' stomach lurched. He tilted his head, staring at her, and mouthed -What?-

Constance bit her lip, her face pale, and motioned him forward. He started towards her, unthinkingly, and then--

"Athos!" There, Treville by the fieldhouse door, staring expectantly at him. 

"Athos," Constance said urgently, "I really just need a second--"

"Yeah, all right," he said distractedly, giving Treville an _in-a-minute_ kind of wave and hurrying toward her. Constance looked upset, anxious--she kept pushing her hair behind her ears, and Athos could see the stress in her face from halfway across the foyer. "What's the matter?"

She sighed, looking anxiously toward the fieldhouse. "It's Aramis, he--"

"Athos, we have to get started," Treville ordered. It was his get-your-ass-here- _now_ voice, and Athos knew it was not one to disobey.

"It's fine," Constance said, even though he could see that it was not, not at all. "You should go, I just wanted to tell you--"

_"Athos."_

He tore himself away from Constance, looking apologetically back over his shoulder at her. "Constance, I can't, I'm sorry--"

"I'll tell you at lunch," she said, waving him away--but her face was heavy with misgivings, and she was chewing her lip again. 

Athos wished he could spare the energy to worry. But the minute he reached Treville, his coach propelled him into the fieldhouse to kick off the meet, and Athos didn't have time to think.

He slipped into his role with more ease than he would have expected. Because that was all he had to be--"the captain," that was it. Not Athos, not the failure of a friend and boyfriend he was. The captain wasn't worried about one of his closest friends self-destructing while the other watched. The captain just needed to fence.

Athos lost himself to the part he was playing, as he and Treville met the other team coaches and captains--he shook hands, he smiled, he coasted on his nerves and his instincts. Any and all of his personal problems had been pushed to the back of his mind--any sense of himself, his awful, fractured, fuckup self, was elsewhere.

It made him distant, aloof in a way that seemed to impress people--they all treated him like he was older, like he was worthy of their respect. He and Treville moved through the crowds easily, a cool and collected team. They talked with the organizers, shook more hands and wished people good luck--tedious, but necessary.

The Brandeis men's team captain was not with his coach. The momentary pause while the coach looked around for him made Athos' brain skip like a scratched record--the real world had a moment to leak back in as he looked around as well, even though he had no idea what the Brandeis team captain looked like. He could see his teammates scattered around the room, talking, stretching, testing their weapons--he found Porthos in no time, standing with d'Artagnan and Monique along the wall, watching the action, but he still couldn't find--

"There he is," the coach said, and on reflex Athos followed his gaze.

Porthos?

For the first time in his life, Athos did a double take. No, that couldn't be the Brandeis captain, because that was Porthos, standing over against the wall with Aramis.

No--wait, but he'd just seen Porthos, and Porthos was with d'Artagnan, not--

Oh.

In half a second, the scene branded itself into his mind.

The Brandeis captain was tall and broad; Black, with short, curly hair, and a smile that made Athos about half a degree weak in the knees--by virtue of being so close to Porthos'. He leaned against the far wall of the fieldhouse, chatting animatedly with a very lively, very flushed, very clearly leaning-in-just-enough-to-touch Aramis.

The reason for Constance's nervousness suddenly became abundantly clear.

At a glance, Athos took in the way Aramis was standing. Shoulder pressed against the wall, body curving up slightly into the Brandeis captain's bulk--his head ducked slightly as he looked up through his eyelashes, the brightness in his eyes and blush on his cheeks visible to Athos halfway across the massive room. It probably looked very sweet to anyone watching who didn't know Aramis--or Porthos. 

Because if this Brandeis boy wasn't a subpar substitute for Porthos, Athos would swallow every inch of his foil. 

Did Aramis realize? Did he care how it looked, how it would _feel_ to them, that he'd flung himself headlong into the arms of the first clone of one of the two of them who'd come along? He wouldn't spend a second in Athos or Porthos' presence anymore, but he was perfectly willing to fuck anyone who could pass for them in a dark room--

Treville's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed, and Athos jumped. His train of thought screeched to a halt, and he suddenly realized the aching burn in his chest was his own fault. He wasn't breathing. 

Athos sucked in a breath and let the spots clear from his eyes. Treville didn't move his hand, though, and Athos was grateful for the support. He wasn't sure he could stand without it right now. 

Because it was all very clear to him, suddenly, in a way it hadn't been before. This Porthos substitute Aramis had latched onto had just thrown everything into very, very sharp relief. 

Aramis was flirting with--was probably going to spend all day with, and then take home and spend all night with--Porthos. This Brandeis boy, for all intents and purposes, was Porthos. They looked like they could be brothers. They both fenced. They both seemed to radiate good humor and kindness and power.

Maybe Aramis realized. He probably didn't. (Athos hoped he didn't. If Aramis knew? And just didn't care? That would break him.) But after being in the clinging, broken, vulnerable place Athos had seen him in this morning, after spending the _night_ with Athos--for the casual fuck he'd found to be _Porthos--_

Bile lurched into the back of Athos' throat.

The Brandeis coach called his captain over--blood rushed in Athos' ears too forcefully for him to catch the name--and not-Porthos looked up. He flushed guiltily, looked back at Aramis and gave some apology with a smile--Aramis smiled and nodded, a smile he hadn't pointed at Athos or Porthos in weeks, and the Brandeis captain clearly was feeling the full force of it when he turned, grinning a bit shamefacedly and blushing. He looked like Porthos when he did that, too.

He started to cross the floor to them, and panic surged in the pit of Athos' stomach. He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here and smile and shake this clueless bastard's hand--

Treville's grip tightened firmly on his shoulder, and Athos flashed a wild-eyed look up at his coach. 

And to his shock, Treville's face was dark with understanding. Heavy lines weighted down the middle of his brow, and his jaw ticked in the same way it did when someone had just tripped over their own feet and landed ass-first on the mats during practice.

Athos had never before wondered if their coach knew anything about the tangled mess his friendship with Aramis and Porthos had become.

Now, he wondered if there was anything Treville _didn't_ know.

Treville squeezed his shoulder again, a faint look of sympathy in his eyes before sternness returned, and Athos swallowed, looking forward again.

"Hi," the Brandeis captain said as he approached, holding out his hand to shake. "Eric Gray."

Treville saved what might have been an awkward moment as Athos tried to find his voice. "John Treville," he said, shaking _Eric's_ hand. "And our team captain, Athos de la Fére." 

Eric's handshake was less crushing than Porthos' usually was, and Athos tried to use the difference to draw himself out of his head. Up close, the ways in which Eric was not actually Porthos were more evident--different eyes, a slightly different nose and brow--but the ways in which they looked alike seemed even more uncanny from this distance, too.

"Yeah, I just met your épée captain," Eric said, his smile wide and innocent. "He said you guys'll put up a good fight."

Athos gritted his teeth and tried to remind himself that it was not this stranger's fault that Aramis had chosen him. There was nothing to be gained by, say, punching him in the face. It wouldn't make Athos feel better, and he'd only hurt his hand.

"I'm sure we will," he said at last, in some approximation of a normal tone. "Aramis doesn't usually say things he doesn't mean."

Even as the words left his mouth, Aramis' voice from the night before echoed unpleasantly in Athos' thoughts.

_Stay, please, just stay--I don't want you to go, I don't, I didn't mean it--_

Athos felt his hands trembling at his sides, and he very firmly clasped them behind his back, blinking rapidly. He could not have this conversation. He _couldn't._

"Athos," Treville said, "would you go and see if they've settled the matchups for the first pool?"

He'd never been so grateful for Treville's interference. He nodded jerkily and turned, overwhelmingly relieved that he didn't have to make small talk with Aramis' one night stand. That was more than he could really bear today. 

As he hurried across the gym to the wall where they were posting matchups, Athos felt more than saw someone moving to meet him.

"You okay?" Porthos asked, falling into step beside him. "What was that, back there?"

Was it possible he hadn't seen? _Thank God for small favors,_ Athos thought as he swallowed, hard. "Just nerves."

"Bullshit," Porthos said, but his voice was more matter-of-fact than harsh. "You're whiter than usual and you're shaking. Did that guy say something to you? I didn't get a good look at him, but--"

"Leave it alone, Porthos," Athos said shortly as they reached the brackets wall. He did not want Porthos looking too closely at the Brandeis captain (Athos had forgotten his name already). For the first time in all the time they'd known each other, he just wanted Porthos to stop _pushing_ it.

"I'm not gonna leave it alone," Porthos said angrily, putting a hand on Athos' shoulder and pulling him away. "I don't care how important you think this meet is, it's not worth your fucking sanity--"

"Trust me when I say this is _not_ about the meet," Athos said, and pulled his shoulder out from under Porthos' hand, crossing to the wall. He needed to check on the matchups. He needed to stop _thinking_ about this.

But Porthos followed him still. "What _is_ it about, then?" he demanded. "You look like shit, will you just let me help?"

Athos blinked furiously as he stared at the fixtures pinned to the wall. They were set, they could go whenever Treville got the microphone and made the announcement. 

_Let me help._

Porthos helping was exactly what Athos was worried about right now.

"I've got this, Porthos," he said without turning around. He couldn't look Porthos in the eye and lie to his face. He most certainly did _not_ have this, but he wasn't going to let Porthos crash and burn, as well. Someone had to have their shit together, and it clearly wasn't Athos today.

Porthos didn't answer. His telling silence pressed in on Athos' ears, louder than the bustle and chatter of the room of athletes and fans on the floor and in the bleachers.

And Porthos wasn't usually one for the silent treatment, Athos realized with a sinking feeling. God, had Athos fucked things up this badly already?

With a grimace, he turned to apologize, just because he couldn't stand losing Porthos' support today--

And stopped dead.

Because Porthos stood staring fixedly across the gym, his cheeks flushed a dull red, and Athos knew what he'd see before he followed Porthos' gaze.

Aramis and the Brandeis captain were flirting again.

"Am I hallucinating," Porthos began, his voice low and controlled, "or is Aramis giving the fuck-me stare to some guy who looks an awful lot like me?"

Athos stepped a little closer, one of his hands twitching to reach up and grab onto Porthos' arm. He didn't. He wasn't sure what touching Porthos would do right now. So instead, he swallowed and said quietly, "You are not hallucinating."

"Like, _exactly_ like me," Porthos went on, his voice going even quieter. "Like, I could walk over and probably shave my fuckin' face using that guy as a mirror."

"Possibly." Athos' throat was so tight he could barely speak.

"After you spent the night in his room," Porthos said. "After we tore the dorm apart looking for him this morning. After three weeks of ignoring us. After three weeks pretending he couldn't look us in the fucking eye, he's gonna give the fuck-me stare to some guy who looks _exactly like me?"_

Porthos bit off his words, and Athos could practically feel electricity crackling off his skin. He didn't sound angry. He didn't sound like anything at all. His words were toneless, inflectionless, just clipped and short and robotic, and it scared Athos more than he could say.

Tentatively, he put his hand on Porthos' shoulder--and Porthos exploded.

"Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?" he snarled, starting forward, and it took all of Athos' strength to hold him in place.

"Porthos, _don't--"_

"I cannot _believe_ him," Porthos spat, his face twisting as Athos dragged him backward. "I can't believe him, I can't believe he'd be so fuckin' cruel, so fuckin' _low--"_

It took every ounce of determination in Athos' body to force Porthos out of the main crush of the floor. They got a few strange looks--one boy spitting off curses as another physically dragged him off to the corner of the gym--but for the most part, no one paid them any attention. Aramis certainly didn't look up.

"I can't believe he's this fucking stupid," Porthos ranted. "I can't believe he doesn't fucking _realize_ \--" He barely seemed to notice they'd finally made it somewhere vaguely private--that same corner behind the bleachers Athos had broken down in before the team turned up. It was fitting, Athos thought detachedly, as he physically blocked Porthos from storming past him again. 

Porthos still spat his anger like machine-gun fire, but Athos could see the heat of his rage starting to break him down. Porthos was too good to keep something that furious burning for too long. Not when it was pain that had sparked the fire in the first place. "I can't belive he'd--that he'd be this much of a heartless, _gutless_ \--" Porthos' chest seized on any more words, and he swallowed hard and reached up angrily to swipe at his eyes. 

Athos took a chance and put his hands on Porthos' shoulders. Porthos didn't knock him away this time, just pushed so lightly at Athos' chest that it didn't even budge him. He stared down at Athos' chest, his dark eyes unfocused--seeing something completely different, Athos was sure.

"He doesn't even--he doesn't think," Porthos said, and it was awful to watch, the way he clung to his anger as desperation started to creep up. His hands clenched convulsively on Athos' jacket. "He's such a--a--" He mouthed soundlessly, then clenched his teeth on something halfway between a growl and a sob. " _God,_ I fucking _hate_ him, he's so--he's such a-- Fuck, I hate him, I _hate_ him, I hate him so fucking _much_ sometimes--"

"I know," Athos said, sliding his hands to Porthos' face. "I know, Porthos."

Porthos shook his head, anger and despair and miserable pain welling up in his face. Without another word, Athos pulled Porthos' head down to him, until they could rest their heads against each other. Porthos went without a fight.

"He's got no fucking idea, does he, Athos?" Porthos said, a hollow resignation echoing in his chest, vibrating through all the places his skin touched Athos'.

Athos let out the breath he'd been holding. No. Aramis clearly had no fucking idea. But it felt...disloyal, almost, to say so. All the signs of Aramis' obvious pain had carved themselves into Athos' mind--the way he'd clung to Athos the night before, the way he'd sobbed in the shower, the way he was so determinedly avoiding them now.

The way he'd kissed Athos' chest in the morning, before he'd woken up all the way.

He could still feel Aramis' lips burning against his ribs.

"He misses us," Athos said, choosing his words carefully. "And in ways I don't think even he's letting himself realize."

Porthos went very tense under his hands, and Athos was suddenly very sure he'd said precisely the wrong thing.

His suspicions were confirmed when Porthos jerked up and back away from him. His broad, open face had closed into something angular and harsh, and Athos' stomach flipped. He'd never seen Porthos look this _cold_ before.

"So he's fucking the knockoff versions of us?" Porthos said bitterly, and he shook his head. "That's fucking _precious."_

And he walked away, leaving Athos standing alone.

It was a literal godsend that Athos' thoughts didn't have time to reel away in despairing horror. He barely had time to think hysterically _oh fuck what have I done I've lost him what the fuck have I done,_ before Treville's voice blared so suddenly over the speakers that he nearly leaped out of his skin. _"Welcome, everyone, to Dumas University, for today's fencing invitational--"_

He needed to be out there, Athos thought wildly, and moved forward in a daze. He had to be out on the floor. He had to say something, and he had a match, and _Porthos had left him, Porthos had walked away and Aramis was already gone and what was he going to do?_ and he had to shake the USFA representatives' hands again, and he had to give the team one last reassuring glance at him standing tall and straight. And then he needed to fence.

He needed to play his role. And as he stepped out into the madness again, Athos had never been so glad to surrender to the part he played.

And then, in what seemed like no time at all, Athos found himself standing on one of the dozens of fencing strips they'd set up in the massive fieldhouse, staring at a tall boy in Harvard crimson, his head completely blank. His mask was on his face, his foil rested heavy in his hand--had he shaken hands with his opponent already? 

Beside him, the referee lifted his arm. _"En garde."_

 _Oh, shit,_ Athos thought wildly.

He'd known, intellectually, that having a meet today meant he'd be fencing.

Somehow, that had not translated in his thoughts into actual _fencing._

His reflexes saved him. He moved unthinkingly into a ready position, his mind racing to catch up with whatever he'd missed--

"Fence!"

Harvard lunged, and Athos' parry went so far wide he might as well have not even lifted his foil. The buzzer blared the touch, and Athos swore inwardly.

That first bout was not, strictly speaking, a travesty. Later, when he'd refer to it as such, Constance would half-shrug with a comforting smile, and d'Artagnan would loyally tell him it didn't matter, since he didn't lose. _That_ would have been a travesty.

But in the moment, it certainly felt like one.

All his moves were sloppy, he was wrong-footed from the start, and Harvard sensed his discomfort and pressed the advantage. After three rapid exchanges in which Athos was jabbed repeatedly in the lower abdomen, he was gritting his teeth and berating himself, and Harvard had a swaggering head tilt that made him see red. They were only playing to five, and Harvard had four already. Athos hadn't scored a single touch, which meant on top of everything _else_ he'd fucking ruined today, he was going to start off his season record with an absolutely disgraceful loss. To fucking _Harvard._

As he paced to his edge of the fencing strip to retake his place, something in the stands caught in the corner of his eye.

The USFA reps were looking right at him. They had their heads together, and even from this distance, he could tell they weren't impressed.

It was only the adrenaline rush of pure shame that saved Athos from total disaster. He was _not_ going to lose his first bout of the season.

And not to _Harvard._

On their next exchange, Athos finally managed a halfway decent parry and landed a touch when Harvard was too busy being _surprised_ to counterattack. It was Harvard's turn to be wrong-footed, and Athos took a vicious satisfaction in ruining someone _else's_ day, for a change.

It was petty. It was certainly not very sportsmanlike. But Athos needed whatever he could get, at this point. At the very least, he finally had his head in the game. He couldn't afford to be thinking of anything not on this fencing strip--not if he wanted to avoid the most shameful experience of his life. 

With his focus at _fucking_ last restored, Athos fought back to win by the skin of his teeth. Harvard tried to force a _corps-a-corps_ right at the end, but Athos had spent too many years wrestling with Porthos and Aramis to let someone body-check him that easily. Far from being irritated at the attempted foul, he felt another petty surge of satisfaction that his opponent had resorted to rule-breaking to avoid losing. It was nice to know he could be implacable enough to force a move of desperation. 

Maybe he'd gotten his groove back, after all, Athos thought as he shook hands with the bitter-faced Harvard fencer. The team had used to make jokes about how relentless he could be in a match. Maybe he'd recaptured that.

Two bouts later, not only was he cursing himself for a fool, he was cursing himself for a jinx, too. He had not recaptured any groove, any ease or skill that he'd had before he'd destroyed the best thing in his life by being a shitty friend. He spent his morning on the defensive instead of the attack, his instincts dulled by weeks of bare-minimum practicing and incredible distraction, barely scraping by with the win each time. 

It wasn't just that he was distracted by Porthos' rage and Aramis' flightiness; it wasn't just that he was hellishly out of practice; it wasn't just the knowledge that the people who could decide his future were sitting in the stands. It was the awful convergence of all those things, plus the emotional hangover of a night in bed with the former love of his life, plus half a dozen fucking other things that all jostled in his brain for attention, his parents and Thomas and Anne and the drugs he was hiding in his fucking desk--everything that served no purpose but to remind him how very little of his life he'd actually devoted to fencing for so long.

When he checked the score sheets after his fifth bout, another barely-deserved victory, worry clenched in the pit of his stomach. The team wasn't doing well, either. Bouts they shouldn't have lost, results that were closer than they should have been... 

And he was the captain; he was supposed to be the leader, set the tone.

His less-than-brilliant morning was bringing down the whole team.

He didn't have another bout for twenty minutes, and Treville wasn't allowed to be on the floor while bouts were in progress, so Athos did what he could. He walked around the edges of the room, let himself see and be seen, and he thought it helped, a little. When he got a chance to stand and watch part of a bout, he sent as much silent encouragement as he could, and backs straightened, lunges became crisper, parries more solid.

But they weren't on form, he could tell that much. Was it his fault, or was there something else going on?

It wasn't until he walked to the other end of the fieldhouse, where the sabres and épées were fencing, that Athos understood the full extent of the problem.

It took him longer than it should have to pick Porthos out of the field of sabreurs. He'd know Porthos' body and movements anywhere, even with his mask on--but he had to stare for a long minute to decide yes, that figure making clumsy mistakes _was_ his normally perfect Porthos.

He'd expected Porthos to be off his game, too. After what he'd seen that morning, Athos would have been very, very surprised if Porthos hadn't been at least a little off, at least for the morning. So while it _hurt_ to watch Porthos swinging a little too hard and not getting his body out of the way in time, Athos wasn't surprised, exactly.

 _Aramis_ being off was the surprise.

Athos would have expected Aramis to be on top of the world. He'd seemed delighted the last time Athos had seen him, pressed up against the Brandeis captain and flirting for all he was worth. He'd seemed to have completely recovered from whatever had him crying in the shower, and hangovers never affected Aramis too badly for very long. 

But as Athos watched from across the room, Aramis was far from his usual precise, elegant style. It wasn't that he was being sloppy, or making careless mistakes--he wasn't pouncing on openings as ruthlessly as he usually delighted in, and Athos watched him miss two clear targets in a row.

That in itself threw up a red flag. Aramis had impeccable aim, usually. That was why he fenced épée. He had the deadliest concentration of anyone Athos had ever met, and he had a brilliant eye for targets. 

Athos wasn't close enough to tell--didn't want to get closer, didn't want to force his presence on Aramis any more than Aramis had made it clear he already had--but he wondered if Aramis' hands were shaking. 

Time rang on the buzzer, and Aramis and his opponent relaxed out of their fencing stances. They clasped hands briefly, and Aramis turned away and pulled off his mask. He was grimacing in frustration, and he pushed his weaponless hand through his hair, frowning down at the mat. 

Athos slipped back onto the foilists' side of the fieldhouse before Aramis could see him watching. His heart beat painfully in his throat, and he wished he was in jeans so he could shove his hands into his pockets to stop their trembling. 

It shouldn't bother him this much that Aramis was clearly preoccupied, too--and not just in the good way Athos had expected him to be, with a new conquest to look forward to. He'd never seen Aramis miss an attack twice in a row.

But if he was disheartening the foil fencers, Porthos was making mistakes in front of all the sabers, and Aramis was off his game with all the épées watching...

No wonder the team was stumbling. 

On reflex, he looked up at the huge clock hanging on the fieldhouse wall--and swore, breaking into a run. He had his next bout in barely two minutes--he'd been watching Aramis for too long. He was always spending too much -time- on Aramis.

He was out of breath for the start of his next bout, which would have been bad enough. But more than that, the glimpses he'd had of Porthos' and Aramis' stumbles had killed his focus. He was too aware of his body--he had to think about every single movement. Nothing was flowing like it had been. He hadn't felt this knees-and-elbows since he was thirteen, fencing in his first competition and failing miserably.

He was down two points to his opponent's four when the timer ran out. For the half second before the result sank in, Athos was absurdly grateful--because at least it was over.

Then _I just lost_ echoed faintly in his head, and nausea came fast on its heels.

It wasn't that the captain _couldn't_ lose. It was just, with everything else had gone wrong today, it felt like his most colossal fuckup yet.

He would have been grateful for the lunch break if he'd felt able to eat anything.

\- - -

"Just a sandwich?" d'Artagnan pleaded, looking worriedly at Athos over the top of his water bottle. "Come on, it's roast beef, it's actually good."

"I really don't think I can eat."

"Stop being dramatic and eat something," Constance sighed, reaching under her sunglasses to rub at the bridge of her nose. "You're still in the elimination bracket, you had _one_ loss."

"It's not that." Athos looked over across the bright green expanse of the soccer field, wishing he'd brought sunglasses, too. The meet had spilled out onto the fields for lunch, with long tables of boxed sandwiches and chips stretching out along the side of the fieldhouse, and it was an absolutely beautiful day. He sat on the grass with Constance and d'Artagnan, wrapped in their jackets and enjoying the brittle warmth of the sun. It should have been a nice break in the middle of a friendly competition.

But Aramis was sprawled on a bench next to the Brandeis captain, laughing as he lay on his back, shielding his eyes with the crook of his arm (with his head practically in Brandeis' lap, he had no fucking shame at all, did he?), and every part of Athos' chest ached.

He hadn't seen Porthos since they broke for lunch. Texts proved unresponsive, and not even Constance had been able to raise him.

That made him feel even more sick than Aramis' very public and uncaring flirtation.

"I hope he's coming back," d'Artagnan said, as if he were reading Athos' mind--or maybe just the way Athos' eyes were sweeping the field, stopping on every tall, well-built figure until the wrong hair or skin color sent his gaze skittering away. "Even with today's mess, he was still the best of our sabres."

Athos stared off at the far edge of the field, where Treville stood in conversation with the USFA representatives. He hoped Treville could convince them the team wasn't _actually_ an overhyped mess of fuckups, as surely any observer would be thinking right now. Right now, surely they were thinking they'd made the trip for nothing.

Maybe Treville was telling them how it was Athos' fault. That was fine. He'd much rather have Treville tell them _it's my captain, you see, he's in love with his best friends and he's managed to throw both of them off their game at once--well, he spent the night with one and abandoned him in the morning, and then he was so appallingly callous to the other one when his heart was clearly broken--_

"I hope that box is closed because you already finished eating."

Athos cracked his neck, he whipped his head around so fast. 

Porthos collapsed down onto the grass beside him, his own lunch box in his hand, and he gave Athos a look. "I'm gonna guess no, then?"

Athos stared at him. There was still a wary tension in Porthos' eyes, and he'd very deliberately placed himself with his back to where Aramis sat with the Brandeis captain. But he was _here,_ he was back, he was talking to Athos as if--as though--

"No," Athos said, when Porthos arched a meaningful eyebrow at the box. "No, I--" His voice locked in his chest, and he closed his mouth, looking down and opening his lunch box while he tried to think of something to say.

There was no way he could say _I thought you weren't coming back, and it made me sick to my stomach._ Not in front of d'Artagnan or Constance.

"Where have you been?" he asked very quietly instead.

Porthos sighed, and Athos dared a glance up at him. Porthos' face was set in tired lines, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Called Flea. Needed to vent."

The knot in the pit of Athos' stomach unkinked itself very slightly. "Oh," he said, for lack of anything better.

But there must have been something in his tone, because Porthos looked up with a slight frown. "What, 'oh?' Where'd you think I'd--"

Thankfully, Porthos realized what Athos must have thought before his guilty, sick flush worked its way up his chest from under his coat.

The sudden, exasperatedly _tender_ look on Porthos' face wrenched him to pieces. "Athos, for fuck's sake," he sighed, kicking his leg out to bump against Athos', "it'd take a hell of a lot more than that to make me leave you."

Athos swallowed, blinking very hard and very fast, and Constance and d'Artagnan politely looked away. The rush of comfort-and-relief was almost as dizzying as his nerves and fear had been. 

"Anyway," Porthos said, looking down at his sandwich before the steadiness of his gaze could bring Athos to tears, "we don't have much but each other anymore, after the complete trainwreck of this morning."

"It's been a total trainwreck," Athos said, relieved that he could just -say it- and not have anyone disagree to spare his feelings. "We're all over the place."

"Yep," Porthos confirmed. "I mean, we can come back if we focus up in eliminations, but to do that we've gotta fix what's broke." He darted a glance up at Athos, his mouth tugging bitterly down at the corners. "And I got no idea how we can do that over lunchtime."

Athos glanced over Porthos' shoulder to Aramis' bench. He'd sat up, at least, but he was sitting thigh-to-thigh with the Brandeis captain and leaning into him like he was the whole world. Athos wasn't sure that was better.

Did he notice, Athos wondered, that he was fitting himself to this stranger the exact same way he curved his body into Porthos' when they were together? It was impossible that the similarities hadn't clicked in Aramis' head. But he just couldn't believe Aramis would be acting this carefree if he _realized_ how like Porthos this stranger was--surely he'd be at least a little more circumspect, if not necessarily _guilty,_ if he thought for half a second how it would look to Athos--or Porthos himself.

Porthos, who half-twisted to see what Athos was looking at, then just as quickly turned back to his lunch. "That makes me fucking sick," he said conversationally, as if he were just continuing the thread of what they'd been discussing. "I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with him."

D'Artagnan and Constance exchanged looks, and didn't say a word. Athos was grateful. He'd said nearly the exact same thing, word-for-word, about five minutes before Porthos sat down. 

"Did he say anything to you?" he asked Constance, quietly. 

Constance sighed. She was quietly shredding her napkin in her lap. "He said a lot of things this morning. Not too many of them were coherent. And then, when we got to the fieldhouse, we ran smack into that Brandeis boy in the foyer." She bit her lip, looking away. "It's my fault, I called him over. I thought he was you, Porthos."

"Seems there's a lot of that going around," Porthos said, his voice back in that strange, inflectionless place that had made Athos want to drag him somewhere private so he could yell and scream to his heart's content. "It isn't your fault."

Since d'Artagnan had done him the courtesy of looking away when he was about to cry, Athos carefully looked away when d'Artagnan reached over to squeeze Constance's hand. That was maybe going to be a problem, too, but he could only really handle one crisis at a time. "It's not," he said, looking over across the field. Treville was still talking to the USFA. "It's not anyone else's fault."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Porthos giving him a narrow look. "Anyone _else's?_ Whose is it, then?"

Athos looked down and took a bite of the sandwich in his box. It tasted like mud in his dry mouth, just a glob of tasteless muck that he somehow had to swallow.

"Oh, _now_ you fuckin' decide to eat," Porthos grumbled, taking a savage bite of his own sandwich. 

Athos forced himself to chew and swallow, and take another bite. He didn't want to faint halfway through the afternoon. That was really the only reason. Normally, he'd remind himself to do normal human maintenance so it wouldn't bother Porthos--but Porthos was clearly still irritated with him, so it was mostly just the public spectacle Athos was trying to avoid at this point. (As well as the conversation, but he wasn't too ashamed of that.)

Because it _was_ his fault. He should have stayed with Aramis. He shouldn't have left because of his own discomfort; if he'd stayed, maybe Aramis wouldn't be trying to fill... _whatever_ void he felt. 

But no. He'd abandoned Aramis to talk to the fencing representatives--who probably considered him little more than a waste of time at this point. 

"I'm just gonna skip," Porthos began heavily, jolting him from his brooding, "whatever convoluted train of thought led you to _today's clusterfuck is one hundred percent your fault_ and just move the fuck on. Do we have any kind of strategy, or...?"

Athos forced himself to stomach the bite he was chewing. "I should walk around, talk to everyone, to Treville. Just...get everyone in the right mindset."

"Aramis, too?" d'Artagnan asked very quietly. He colored sharply when Porthos shot him a glare, and Constance put a protective hand on his wrist. 

"He doesn't want to talk to me," Athos said, and flashed Porthos a quelling look. _Don't frighten the rookie, he means well._ "So I suppose it doesn't matter whether I want to or not."

He took another bite of his sandwich, trying just to ignore whatever feedback his mouth was sending him and just chew and swallow. It probably tasted fine--maybe even better than that, since Porthos had the look of someone who'd just polished off two boxes--but Athos didn't have the mental energy to divert to something as trivial as _taste._

"You finish your food first," Constance said severely when he started to get his feet under himself. "You've still got twenty minutes before they even post the bouts for elimination rounds."

Athos sank wordlessly back to the ground, and Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged smiles. He'd like to see either of _them_ do anything else under the circumstances, he thought savagely, and begrudgingly took another bite of his food.

The sandwich tasted like dirt. 

Behind Porthos, Aramis stretched up and pressed a kiss to the Brandeis captain's lips.

\- - -

It was lucky for all of them that the Brandeis captain fenced foil and not sabre. Athos didn't let himself think about what could have happened to the poor bastard if he'd come up against Porthos after lunch--sabre was a slightly more violent form of fencing as it was. He trusted Porthos to never, ever hurt another soul, but...

The look of utter _betrayal_ on his face when he'd turned to see what had made Athos choke on that fucking sandwich was something Athos would never forget.

He'd never seen that particular combination of anger and frustration and _sadness_ and--worst of all-- _longing_ on anyone's face before. Seeing it on Porthos made it a thousand times worse.

They'd been all over each other. All _fucking_ over each other, in the middle of the field, in the sunlight, like a fucking teen movie--it was worse than Marsac, it was ten thousand times worse. 

Because if Marsac had been the threat of losing Aramis entirely-- _this_ was knowing he was just an arm's length away, and as good as unreachable.

 _He can do whatever he wants,_ Athos reminded himself over and over, as he pressed his shoulder against Porthos' and felt Porthos shaking, staring determinedly at the ground as Constance and d'Artagnan carried on a bright, forceful conversation over their heads. _Aramis can do what he likes. We don't own him. He doesn't owe us anything._

Apparently, not even the plain courtesy of refraining from sucking face with Porthos' clone in front of Porthos himself.

So it was for the best, really, that it was Athos who ran up against said clone in the elimination rounds-- fueled solely by rage and Porthos' fortifying gaze. Porthos lost his first elimination bout after lunch, too distracted and upset to keep his guard up the way he needed to, and Athos was selfishly glad. That meant Porthos was there to watch him, to lean against the wall, clapping if he did well and calling encouragement if he didn't. 

But more than that, it just meant he could look up whenever he needed to and see Porthos' steadying smile to keep him on track.

He wasn't even sure what _on track_ was anymore, though, if he were honest with himself. He just knew he needed to do better--needed to win for the team, for the representatives watching and ticking boxes and making silent decisions about his future, about his friends' futures.

Needed to win to still be worth something. Needed to win to prove he still could do the one thing he was good at. Giving himself over to it was all he could handle right now.

So the afternoon flowed on in a hazy blur of bouts, and waiting, and another bout, until time had ceased to exist and all he did was walk back and forth between the various strips they had him fencing on, and the bout sheet. Athos barely paid attention to the bout order. He was just fencing. He wasn't planning or strategizing. He didn't have enough left.

So when he saw _Eric Gray -- Brandeis_ on the sheet, right next to _Finals, Men's Foil,_ and his own name, he did a double take.

Then he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to fight down the hyena-peal of hysterical, hooting laughter that clawed at his chest to break free.

It was a pity the épée bouts were still going, he thought giddily. Aramis deserved to know he was being fought over like in some courtly love story. 

Not that Eric was aware that was the time-worn tradition they were rehearsing here. But it definitely was happening. 

He looked over, wild-eyed, and caught Porthos' gaze. Porthos frowned, half-shifting from his position against the wall, head tilting in a _yeah?_ sort of way. Athos mouthed _finals?,_ and Porthos' expression sobered with understanding. Athos wondered if Porthos had noticed how far into his own head Athos had sunk; Porthos did seem to be watching him carefully.

Athos couldn't leave the strip as the judges checked his weapons, so he had to content himself with staring fixedly at Porthos, drawing up strength and reassurance from his deep brown eyes. Porthos gazed steadily back, his jaw set and his back straight. _Don't let it get to you,_ Porthos was saying, as good as shouting, across the fieldhouse. _You've got this._

Athos swallowed hard and nodded, and Porthos gave him a sharp nod in return. Then his gaze flickered to just over Athos' shoulder, and his face hardened. 

Eric Gray, Brandeis, was walking up to the strip.

Even yards away, Athos could see the faint red mark high on his neck, under his ear. It was Aramis' favorite place to bite.

Athos' stomach flipped, and he swallowed down the sick-jealous rush of anger that lurched up his throat as Eric Gray approached.

"Hey," Eric said, holding out his hand and smiling broadly--of course he would be, he had plenty of reasons to be smiling. "We meet again."

"It seems so," Athos said, giving his hand only the briefest of shakes, and he turned back to the referee. He refused to make small talk with Aramis' current conquest. Really, that shouldn't be expected of him today.

When the referee finished with him and turned to Eric, Athos stalked to his edge of the strip and picked up his mask.

Before he put it on, his gaze crossed Porthos' again. 

Athos had never known anyone who smiled as much as Porthos did--not even Aramis was so unfailingly open, so ready to talk or lend an ear. His broad, round-edged face had never been anything less than inviting, at least to Athos.

There was no trace of a smile on Porthos' face now.

Athos took one long look at the cold, closed-off, _hurt_ expression on the face of the love of his life, and jammed his mask onto his face. Nothing else had been able to sharpen his focus like this all day, but Porthos' pain could. And did.

For Porthos, then.

The bout happened to someone else. Athos only watched it from a remote, removed place inside his own head. He'd never felt so completely cold and calculating, so detached, when there were no chemicals to blame.

It scared him. He didn't like being a person who could drop his emotions at the flip of a switch. It fit in too nicely with all the worries he already had about not being human enough. 

But he wasn't sure he could tolerate feeling everything that was rushing through him right now. It was disconnect, or collapse under the weight. 

It was the most vicious Athos could remember himself being, since the first tournament he'd fenced in as a child. He felt almost detached from himself as he flowed in and out of attack, riposte, counter-riposte, like it was someone else moving so cleanly, attacking so mercilessly. Eric Gray couldn't keep up--didn't have a chance.

Eric Gray didn't know any better, but Athos didn't care. He barely paused after each touch, flowing straight back into an _en garde_ and waiting for the command to begin again. 

So when at last, it didn't come, the only thing he felt was bemusement. Were they still going, or no?

Then Eric Gray took off his mask and moved forward with his hand out, a rueful smile on his face, and the referee came moving into Athos' field of vision, and Athos finally realized what was happening.

Oh.

He'd won, then.

He took off his mask, reluctant to withdraw from his safe shell into the world, but he knew what was expected of him. He held out his hand to shake Eric's, and Athos nodded jerkily to him, feeling nothing but a cold, curling satisfaction at the polite disappointment on Eric's face. 

He shouldn't enjoy that, some distant part of him realized. Should he? Was it all right to be pleased that he'd defeated this rival--if this rival didn't even know he was one? And was Eric even a _rival,_ because there'd been no contest in the first place, had there, if Aramis didn't even know Athos was an option to _choose?_

 _You're fucking sick,_ Athos' own voice sneered in his head, as he shook hands with the referee. _Who the fuck takes pleasure in other people's defeat, just because you feel like you own your friend? What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Porthos' hand landed on his shoulder--Athos would know it anywhere--and Athos turned blindly into Porthos' chest, wrapping his arms around Porthos' chest and holding on for dear life.

Porthos exhaled all his breath in a rush, and his arms came up to wrap around Athos more tightly than they ever had before. "It's over," he whispered, his breath stirring the hair at Athos' temples and his voice so quiet no one but Athos would hear it at all. "You got through it, babe. It's done, it's over. You're done."

A shudder wracked his body, and Athos buried his face in Porthos' chest. Porthos always knew exactly what he needed to hear.

It was over. He'd done what he needed to do.

He could collapse now.

Handshakes and congratulations and Treville's slightly edged smile blurred in his senses--Treville could clearly tell Athos was so far out of his own fucking head he could have been on the moon, and Athos dreaded the inevitable conversation he'd have to have. Treville had a look on his face like he was going to drag Athos up to the locker room and make him piss in a cup. 

_I promise I'm not stoned, I'm just a fucked-up awful person,_ he nearly said aloud when his eyes locked with Treville's. But Porthos hadn't taken his arm off Athos' shoulders since Athos had dropped away from their embrace, and Athos wouldn't say that kind of thing about himself in front of Porthos. Not because it was any less true, but because Porthos had this silly idea that Athos shouldn't be so hard on himself. 

He really needed to get out of here before he said or did something that was going to upset someone, whether it was saying awful yet true things about himself in front of Porthos, or being out of his mind in front of Treville, or accidentally telling Eric Gray exactly what the hell he'd unknowingly jumped into with both feet.

The first moment someone was not actively speaking to him, Athos shrank back into Porthos and tried to disappear.

Porthos' arm tightened around his shoulders, and then Porthos was tugging him back through the press of people, wrapping himself around Athos and being a human battering ram, like he so enjoyed doing. Athos went weak with relief, and just let Porthos move him. Porthos would take care of him. They moved through the crowd with a two-second delay between what Athos saw and his brain's interpretation of it, and he hated having to give belated thanks and reactions to the congratulatory smiles from his teammates. His overstimulated mind and body just couldn't _handle_ it. 

And then it was quiet, and Athos realized they were in the lobby. He followed numbly as Porthos tugged him off to the side, into someplace small, someplace private. Porthos closed the door, locked it, and gently pulled Athos into his arms.

Athos smelled dust and rubber, the dry sweat of decades, and they were in the spare equipment room. The only light came from the dingy, exposed fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, and even in the dim light, Athos felt stripped bare. He pressed his face into Porthos' chest again and let himself shake apart.

"All right," Porthos said, unbearably gently. "It's all right, Athos. I've got you, we're together. It's done, it's all over, you don't have to do any more."

Athos was shaking so violently he could barely stand, and with another soothing murmur of _it's all right, it's okay, you're okay,_ Porthos lowered them to the ground and pulled Athos into his lap, like he had that day in the fencing studio, when this _exact fucking thing_ had happened, because Athos was a fucking _basket case_ who couldn't get through a _fucking_ day without five hundred _fucking_ things triggering a _fucking panic attack--_

"You have been running on empty for two weeks, Athos, and I know it's been hard," Porthos said, stroking his hair, and Athos choked down a pathetic, strangled sob. "It's been so fucking hard, and you did so well, you got through it, I knew you could. Just breathe, just focus on my voice."

Athos tried, he _tried,_ and his fingertips dug into Porthos' jacket, pressing his face into Porthos' neck and feeling his pulse beat in his throat.

"It's adrenaline, babe," Porthos told him, his deep voice humming through Athos' chest. "You're coming down off it, and you're coming out of your head, and you barely ate. I know it must feel like you're going out of your mind, but that's all this is, I swear." Athos forced down another pitiable sound, and Porthos pressed a kiss to his hair. "I swear, babe," he whispered. "I swear, I _swear,_ you're gonna be fine, it's gonna pass and everything's gonna be fine."

Athos gulped air and held on to Porthos for dear life, and slowly his senses and his mind started to reconnect, resyncing like the audio and video on a stream as a bad connection stabilized. Now that it was ending, he felt weak and lightheaded, sick to his stomach, but he was grounded. Everything felt real again.

Athos rested his forehead on Porthos' collarbone and took a deep breath. He hadn't had a dissociative episode this bad since the hospital. 

He really was backsliding.

It scared the hell out of him.

"Are you back with me?" Porthos asked him. His breath was warm on the back of Athos' neck.

"I have no idea," Athos said. He felt far too much like the person he'd been before college to tell Porthos that the Athos of now, the Athos he cared about, was back.

Porthos sighed. "Could you give me a not-cryptic answer and stop scaring the shit out of me, please? You've never had a panic attack like that before, where you couldn't even talk."

"A dissociative episode," Athos said, taking refuge in clinical tones and medical language. "And I have, actually. Not in years, but." He swallowed. "I suppose I haven't been under stress like this in years, either."

"No," Porthos agreed, his arms tightening around Athos. "Probably not." He was quiet a moment, then added, "But it's over now. You got through the worst of it."

He was right. It was over. The tournament was over--the first one of the year, always the hardest one, getting back into the swing, and hopefully by the next tournament he would be _used_ to having lost Aramis and not be so raw with how much it still hurt--all that, and even with the convergence of it, Athos had actually managed to win. 

So why did he still feel like shit, then?

"You want to go back out there?" Porthos asked softly.

Athos shook his head, slumping against Porthos' body, and Porthos nodded, rubbing a hand over Athos' back. He wasn't ready yet. Something was still missing, something knocking his equilibrium off-balance.

It took another five minutes of sitting motionless in Porthos' lap, letting Porthos' breathing steady his own, to recognize it was Aramis' absence throwing him off-kilter. He'd grown used to it over the past few weeks, but the awful episode he'd just had seemed to have hit all his reset buttons. Everything felt just as sharp and painful as it had the night after Halloween.

"Is it gonna happen again, if we go out there?" Porthos asked, and there was an edgy care in his voice that tugged at Athos' heart. Porthos had no fucking idea, but he was trying. "We can just slip out, if it will. No offense, but I've never seen you that out of it when you weren't actually drunk or blazed off your ass, and I literally never want to see that again."

Athos wiped at his eyes with one hand. "It's unsettling from all sides. I'm sorry I never gave you 'Your Boyfriend's Anxiety Disorder 101'; we should have covered this in our first lesson."

Porthos' chuckle echoed through both their bodies, and Athos held onto him even tighter.

"I'll be all right, Porthos," he said quietly. "This was just...the perfect storm of my triggers." Forced external pressure, unreasonably high expectations, and just a dash of personal upheaval--a perfect convergence of everything to spur his self-loathing and self-recrimination and self-abuse to never-before-seen heights, which didn't _help_ his poor, overwhelmed brain. The thing was taxed as it was. He sighed. "Treville and I are going to have a very unpleasant conversation after Thanksgiving."

He could practically hear Porthos frowning. "Treville's not gonna be pissed at you for your brain getting so overwhelmed it had to shut down."

Athos was silent for a long enough moment that he could feel Porthos fidgeting slightly in concern. 

"Athos? C'mon, you know he's not."

"That's not what Treville thinks this was," Athos said finally. 

"And how do you know what he's thinking?" Porthos asked, his voice very quiet.

"He--" Athos' voice snagged on a break, and he swallowed. "He and I have an agreement," he said. The words felt stiff in his mouth, and for half a wild second, he wondered if he was about to tell Porthos _everything._

Then he mastered himself and took a deep breath. No. He couldn't do that. Not even at this fucking lowest of low points. There were some things that would tax even Porthos' love and tolerance.

"He thinks I'm stoned," Athos said finally. "I saw his face out there. He thinks I took something, because Treville has no idea just how messed up my brain can get on its own."

"Why would he think that?" Porthos asked, in that same quiet, careful tone.

Athos sighed. "Well, didn't you?"

Porthos made a disgruntled noise. "No--but then again, I've barely spent six hours out of your sight for the past three weeks," he had to concede, and Athos could tell he'd let it go.

Athos swallowed, wiping at his eyes again, and lifted his head at last to look up into Porthos' eyes. Porthos' face was serious, concerned, but he looked relieved to see Athos' face. "There you are," he said softly, like he had when he'd been there for Athos' breakdown in the fencing studio, and Athos managed a faint smile for him.

He pressed into Porthos, tilting his face up hopefully because Porthos was kind and maybe he was in a giving mood, and this was the first time they'd been alone together all day--

Porthos took Athos' face between his hands and kissed him with a tenderness that turned every one of Athos' bones to jelly. He clung to Porthos' jacket with shaking hands, trembling with relief so strong it left him light-headed.

Porthos held him for a long moment before he finally let them break gently apart. "I love you, y'know," he whispered against Athos' lips. "Fucked-up brain and baggage and all."

Athos blinked back the sudden sting of tears, his arms tightening around Porthos' neck. He nodded, because what else could he -do- in the face of that, and rested his forehead against Porthos'. 

Then something struck him, and he pulled back, frowning into Porthos' dark eyes. "Are _you_ all right? You had a worse afternoon than I did, what with the tournament, and--" _And Aramis shoving his tongue down your clone's throat in broad daylight,_ he _didn't_ say, but he was sure Porthos read it on his face.

Porthos sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Yes. No. I don't know. I don't really care all that much about fucking up the tournament, we've got four more. And about _him,_ it's easier for me just to think about taking care of you, and not how much I want to shout at him for being a clueless fuck right now, okay?"

Athos sighed, pressing his cheek to Porthos'. "I know the feeling."

"I know you do." Porthos kissed his temple. "You sturdy enough to go out there and just see if it's all wrapped up?"

Athos took a deep breath and nodded, and Porthos helped him get his feet under him. He was a little wobbly, but this was still one of his faster recovery times from a severe anxiety attack. It was all down to Porthos, he knew.

Porthos kept a careful hand on his shoulder as they left the equipment room and headed back towards the fieldhouse. Athos' balance swayed just enough for him to be grateful, and Porthos gave him a reassuring squeeze as they walked back inside.

It was over, Athos could tell instantly. There weren't any bouts going on, the stands had cleared, and the rest of the team was idling around, chatting with the fencers from other schools and slowly drifting out in groups to go to dinner. 

Thank God, Treville was nowhere in sight.

Porthos made a _hmm_ noise, and Athos followed his gaze to the closest row of bleachers. D'Artagnan sat there with Constance, still in his gear with the soberest expression Athos had ever seen on his face, and Constance was talking to him quietly. He and Porthos exchanged a look and hurried over there.

 _"There_ you are," Constance said, looking up as they approached. The worried furrow between her brows was back. "Athos, are you okay? You looked sick earlier."

"I'm fine now," he said, casting an eye over d'Artagnan. "How did things end?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Harvard and MIT took sabre and épée for the men, Wellesley swept the women's events." He was terse, answering as shortly as possible, and Constance pursed her lips. Athos and Porthos shared another glance.

"Locker room, then dinner?" Porthos suggested.

D'Artagnan sighed, pushing himself upright. "Whatever."

Athos still wasn't quite sure what was wrong with d'Artagnan until they were up in the locker room, putting their gear away. The boy's peevish slamming of his locker door finally clued him in: this was sulking.

It was almost a relief. This, he knew how to deal with.

They met Constance sitting on the bench outside the sports center, and she got up from her seat, hands tucked into her coat pockets, when she saw them.

Athos held up a hand, motioning her back down. "You and Porthos stay for a moment. D'Artagnan and I will be right back." He flashed a surprised-looking d'Artagnan a glance, and started across the field. "Come on, then."

After a moment's startled pause, d'Artagnan jogged to catch up with him. "Where are we going?" he asked in more normal tones, falling in beside Athos. Curiosity had jolted him out of his sulk, it seemed.

Athos nodded to the path ahead of them. The pavement wrapped around the edge of the field, swinging down the hill to the long, curving shore of the lake. It was barely four o'clock, but the sun was already starting to set, and its fall cast long orange rays over the lake and the woods.

Athos wasn't normally one to be taken in by how pretty their campus was, and even _he_ thought it was gorgeous and calming. D'Artagnan, little nature-bred romantic that he was, seemed to relax almost instantly.

They walked in silence down to the lake path, the only sounds the crackle of fallen leaves under their feet and the drowsy chirps of frogs in the long grass. 

The weathered pine bridge over the runoff stream from the fields looked over the entire west side of the campus, and by silent agreement, they slowed and stopped. D'Artagnan leaned heavily on the railing, crossing his arms and watching the tiny people, far off, walking the distant paths across the green. He looked younger than usual in the crisp autumn light.

Athos leaned on the rail beside him and watched the water trickle into the lake under their feet.

"Spit it out," he said finally.

"I lost half my bouts today," d'Artagnan said. His voice was so much quieter than usual; his usual punch and confidence seemed to have vanished with his fencing gear. "That's never happened before."

Ah. Athos nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's your first NCAA competition," he said, just as quietly. Their voices barely made any wisps of fog in front of them. "You knew the people you fenced with back home, and you've gotten used to fencing with the team, but this is a very different level of competiton. It's natural to have some growing pains."

D'Artagnan nodded glumly. "I guess I'm just used to being the good one."

"You hardly shamed yourself," Athos reminded him, nudging d'Artagnan's shoulder with his own. "It's easy to be disheartened, but you're a fast learner. It only took you a day to pick up my backbend. I'm sure you'll be climbing the ranks by the end of the season."

D'Artagnan's face brightened a little, and this was such a relief, Athos thought, that he could still do this. There was enough of him left to help someone, even if he couldn't do it for himself. D'Artagnan mattered more, anyway. D'Artagnan cared so much about his performance, about the team, about being better.

He'd be a good captain. 

Maybe Athos should just let d'Artagnan replace him. D'Artagnan had his enthusiasm still; d'Artagnan had never let anyone down with his drinking, his bad temper, his callousness.

D'Artagnan didn't have a mental illness that could blindside him with crippling inadequacy at a moment's notice. D'Artagnan probably wasn't dreading the rest of his life, or what was waiting when they walked up from this peaceful mentorship interlude. 

"You're going to do well, d'Artagnan," Athos said at last, hugging his arms to his chest against the chill. "I know you will."

D'Artagnan flashed a sideways smile at him. "Thanks," he said softly. "You were...really great today, Athos."

The chill had already settled in the pit of his chest. It was too late. Athos closed his eyes, tilting his face up to catch the very last of the sun. "I wasn't," he said, as matter-of-factly as he could. He was dreading having to accept whatever praise his teammates felt he deserved for today. It was hard to smile and nod when he could barely remember any of it, and what he _did_ remember had been fueled by sheer frustration and rage. "I wasn't in the right headspace. Fury is not a substitute for technique."

"Oh," d'Artagnan said softly, and they stood in silence for a few more moments, watching the sun drop behind the treeline.

At length, Athos stood back and stretched, popping his neck with a groan. "I'm going to freeze solid. Dinner?"

"Yeah," d'Artagnan agreed, and they started back up the hill in companionable quiet. "Thanks," d'Artagnan said suddenly, as they came up to the fields. "I was probably being a brat, wasn't I?"

"Just a little," Athos agreed. Porthos and Constance were sitting outside, Constance tucked up against Porthos' warmth, and Athos' heart gave a funny little skip to see them like that. A good miss of a beat, as opposed to all the other painful things that had happened to his heart today. D'Artagnan sighed wistfully, and Athos brushed his shoulder against his friend's in commiseration.

"Hey," Porthos called as they drew nearer. "Please tell me you're done communing with nature or what-the-fuck-ever so we can go eat?"

"I told you I'd take the puppy for a walk," Athos called back, and Porthos' answering grin did plenty to replace the fading sunshine.

They walked back to Alexander together, and to Athos' relief, they'd waited long enough that the dining hall had substantially cleared out. The four of them could eat without anyone coming up to them, without having to relive the mess that was this afternoon. They didn't have to sit with anyone, friend or stranger, and have to pretend they were well. They could just sit together as the night fell outside.

Athos ate in silence, letting Porthos and Constance's conversation carry him along. D'Artagnan chimed in occasionally, but they all let Athos be, and he was inexpressibly grateful. He wondered how much Porthos had told Constance, about Athos' afternoon and his breakdown, or if she'd just guessed--she was flashing him the occasional worried, sympathetic look, and he didn't know if Porthos had _told_ her or if he just really _did_ look that much like shit.

Porthos sat very close to him all through dinner, his thigh pressed to Athos' under the table. There was no intent in the touch, just a steady reassurance of presence. It was very _Porthos,_ just to silently _be,_ and Athos was feeling--if not fully _recharged_ \--at least vaguely restored by the food, and the company, and Porthos' careful touch.

Which was good. Because if he hadn't had any of those, when they went upstairs and the elevator door opened straight onto a scene from _Animal House,_ Athos may have actually burst into tears.

"What the actual fuck," he said instead, stepping out in a daze.

"Oh, son of a _bitch,"_ Porthos groaned, looking around at the mess. 

D'Artagnan looked around apprehensively. "Wild party."

Their fellow fencers, Athos realized as they stood there and took in the hordes, had invited the athletes from other schools back to the dorm to party before everyone blew town for Thanksgiving break in the morning. The hallway, kitchen, and common room were full of his fencers and faces he vaguely recognized from earlier in the day, and every single person was blowing off steam in a fit of pre-break madness. Which was fine, and great for building relationships in their sports community, even, but--goddammit, he was _done_ with this day. 

A cheer went up the minute the three of them walked into the kitchen. Intellectually, Athos understood that there was a certain expectation of him, as a captain and a victor, to stay and socialize for a given amount of time. Nevermind that that was the absolute last thing he wanted to do; it was necessary. They needed to see him well, and whole, and triumphant.

"I guess we'll turn in later," he said to Porthos in an undertone.

"You sure?" Porthos asked, looking skeptical. 

Athos sighed. "An appearance is obligatory," he said, and accepted the beer someone pressed into his hand.

They stood in the kitchen for a good fifteen minutes, nursing beers and making small talk and graciously accepting congratulations (on Athos' end, at least), before Athos realized d'Artagnan was deliberately keeping Porthos and himself from looking through the connecting doors to the common room. He kept positioning himself so Athos and Porthos would have their backs to the common room if they wanted to talk to him, and once Athos noticed this, the rest fell into place.

"D'Artagnan," he said more quietly, leaning in to him, when he was sure Porthos' attention was diverted by whatever Felipe was saying. D'Artagnan leaned in, his face artfully innocent, and that cemented Athos' suspicions. "Aramis is in the common room behind us, isn't he?"

D'Artagnan blanched. "Um."

"He's all over that Brandeis boy?" 

D'Artagnan looked sick. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to _say,_ but I knew it was bothering you, so--"

"It's fine." He shifted closer to Porthos, making sure that his body was keeping Porthos facing forward, as well. 

His shoulder brushed Porthos' arm, and Porthos broke off what he was saying, looking sharply down at Athos. "Yeah?"

"Nothing," Athos assured him, hoping his smile didn't look as fake at it felt.

Aramis' loud, clear laugh rang out in the common room behind him. 

They were still looking at each other, so there was no way Athos could miss Porthos' split-second flinch. God, they couldn't even get away from this in their fucking _home._

Wordlessly, Athos held out his beer, and Porthos took it without comment. His dark eyes were dull, and he drank about half of it down in one swig. 

Athos was the RA. He could put a stop to this whole thing, if he wanted to. He could tell the strangers they had to leave; everyone would hate him and think him the worst hardass in the history of northeastern fencing, but he wouldn't have to handle this mess with Aramis anymore.

But he was also a coward, and he'd already had two mental breakdowns today.

Athos leaned into Porthos' side and took another swig of his beer.

The kitchen filled, and the three of them lingered. Eventually the crowd pulled d'Artagnan out into the hall, and Porthos tugged Athos down to sit in the corner between the fridge and the sink--close enough to the table around which their friends clustered that they were still clearly in attendance, but out of the way enough that they wouldn't have to speak much. They avoided looking the common room door as much as they could. They knew Aramis was still in there--and his occasional laugh, or the low murmur of his voice, carried easily through the two rooms, so they knew exactly where he was at all times.

This was literally hell on earth, Athos realized as Aramis' laugh plucked tantalizingly at his senses over the noise of the party. The realization came to him as he sat tucked into Porthos' side and nursing his beer (it had gone warm and tasted like piss anyway, so he just rolled the bottle between his hands for lack of anything better to do. For once, he didn't feel like getting drunk. He wasn't sure he could drink it, anyway. He had a feeling the sensation of something else in his stomach would make him throw up). So he was sitting here, stone sober, knowing Aramis was close, so close, and unable to touch him, or even _look_ at him. 

He'd read Dante's _Inferno._ The real pain of Hell was the absence of God.

Next door in the common room, someone turned on music. Loud, thumping bass spread through the kitchen, into the hall, and Athos heard a few people cheer. Dancing, or just background--who knew.

His headache protested in the strongest possible terms--but at least he wouldn't have to hear Aramis' painful laugh anymore.

It felt like hours passed, with the two of them sitting in the corner just trying to hold each other up. And people just kept _coming,_ flooding through the kitchen for more beer, to find Athos and congratulate him, to get some of Porthos' usual infectious cheer. Athos only had to smile and nod, because no one expected more from him--but could tell Porthos was having to really make an effort, and it broke his heart. Porthos couldn't just be _sad,_ he had to smile and laugh for everyone.

He slipped his hand into Porthos', wrapping their fingers together, and squeezed.

"I'm sick of this fucking party," Porthos said, low enough for only Athos to hear over the thudding bass in the next room. "Can we please just fucking go to bed?"

Thank God. Athos pushed himself upright without another word, and Porthos uncurled himself from the floor and stood. They pushed their way through the mess of drunk students (God, half these people didn't even go to this school, and Athos was the RA, he was going to have to deal with this, _fuck everything)_ and into the hallway.

It was better here, just scattered people sitting and drinking--and Athos knew he should say something, but for fuck's sake, he just didn't have the energy, couldn't summon up enough emotion to care.

Porthos tugged on his hand, and it was only then that Athos belatedly realized their fingers were still twined together. Porthos was making a half-hearted attempt to pull his hand away--and Athos wondered if it was for Porthos' sake, or because he wasn't sure Athos wanted everyone to see them holding hands. 

And it wasn't that Athos minded, he just wanted to stay discreet--mainly because Aramis would find out, wouldn't he, and wasn't it funny, that after the fucking day they'd had, that he still didn't want to hurt Aramis?

But Aramis was wrapped up in the newest notch on his bedpost--Athos had no idea where he was anymore, and at any rate it wasn't _right here,_ so what did it matter?

And as for the rest of the hall finding out about him and Porthos--

He just couldn't care right now.

So Athos squeezed Porthos' fingers again, and Porthos' hand stilled and went heavy in his grasp. 

Athos didn't look over his shoulder at Porthos. He was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to bear whatever he saw there.

They made their way down the hallway to Athos' room. Athos knew he'd probably have to go break up the party soon, but maybe he could nap for a little while. Maybe for at least half an hour things could just be quiet, be calm.

He just wanted to lay with Porthos and forget about everything. Maybe they could just pretend things were going to be fine and normal. Just for half an hour. Athos could allow himself to disconnect from the real world for half an hour. He could even try to--

His door was open.

Had he left his bedroom door open, in his hurry, this morning? They were close enough that he could see it cracked, see the small triangle of light spilling out onto the hallway carpet--but he didn't think he'd turned on the light in the morning at all.

"Did you go into your room at all after breakfast?" Porthos sounded confused, too, and Athos glanced back over his shoulder at him.

"I genuinely cannot remember, but I am fairly sure _no_ ," he said, and sighed. Someone was in his room. It happened, occasionally, with parties; the drunk or opportunistic slipped into open rooms on the hall to sit or drink or fuck, but hell, who went into the RA's room? Athos had no problem, generally, with the party--but if it had spilled over into _his own bedroom,_ he was going to take it personally. He knew he hadn't been acting the RA lately, but there was a line, dammit.

He strode down the hallway, more annoyed than tired now, and pushed his door open. "Hey."

Two people sat on his bed, limbs tangled in an embrace. The one facing the door jerked upright, and Athos felt a shock of deja vu.

On Halloween, in the hallway mirror, he'd glimpsed Aramis' face over Marsac's shoulder--a split second of Aramis caught in painful ecstasy, with Marsac's leather-clad back a barrier between them.

This was like that. Only Aramis' face was pale and horrified, and it was over the shoulder of the Brandeis captain.

Porthos' hand closed painfully around Athos' own, and the white-hot fog of rage settled with a buzz in Athos' ears. 

In his bed.

They were in his bed. 

In. His. _Bed._

Aramis' mouth moved in soundless cursing, scrambling back and away, looking around wildly as if he'd only just realized where he was. Athos could feel Porthos saying something, loud and angry, and Athos had a sense of the voice, the tone--but all he could see was Aramis, all he could _hear_ was the rush of his own blood in his ears. Aramis was sweaty and disheveled and Athos' stomach was twisting itself into knots at the sight of him.

The Brandeis captain looked around, and a boiling surge of hatred cascaded down into Athos' stomach at the sight of the undone buttons on his polo. 

He needed to leave, he realized faintly, or he was going to hurt someone.

Athos turned on his heel and walked down the hall to the elevator landing. Their fellow fencers danced and drank on, the party completely unchanged, the hall still littered with fringe partiers who called out to Athos to join them.

He didn't. He was angrier than he'd ever been in his life, and it made him peculiarly calm. No more hiding. No more holding his tongue. He felt like an animal straining at its lead, every bit of him trembling to explode into motion.

He felt Porthos follow him down the hall, follow as Athos paced back and forth at the elevator landing, and as Athos turned he saw the Brandeis captain coming down the hall.

Porthos set himself in front of Athos with a growl, and the Brandeis captain pulled up short.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice faint under the _sh-thump_ of blood rushing in Athos' ears. "I really am, he didn't say he--"

"Just fucking leave, okay?" Porthos snarled. After a startled moment's hesitation, and with another muttered, "sorry," the Brandeis captain did just that.

The stair door slammed shut, and Porthos turned to Athos with a heavy look.

Athos, for the first time in his life, ignored him. 

Because Aramis was coming slowly down the hall, looking sick, and every single one of Athos' senses zeroed in on him.

His calm evaporated. The ringing in his ears faded. Everything felt like a tape being played at half-speed: Aramis looked up at him, blinked, and Athos could count every single eyelash, every fleck of black in deep brown that was gazing at him with terrible apprehension. Athos could hear every word the people around them were saying, and understood exactly none of them. 

He took a step forward. Aramis swallowed.

One step became two. Three. Four, five-six-seven he was _running_ and then Porthos grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back and Aramis flinched, and abruptly Athos realized he was screaming words.

"What the _fuck_ is _WRONG_ with you?"

Everything crashed into full speed, full volume, and full color, and Athos thrashed in Porthos' grip and _yelled._ "You were in my _bed!_ "

"I'm sorry," Aramis said, his face paler than Athos had ever seen it. "Athos, I'm sorry, I didn't realize--"

"How could you not fucking _realize?"_ He had never heard his own voice at this volume before; his throat felt raw with it. "Are you really that fucking self-absorbed?"

"I didn't _mean_ to," Aramis said, and color flooded back up into his cheeks, his voice was getting heated, but his eyes were still awful and hurt--

And Athos was so angry, it just made him more furious, that Aramis had the gall to be the one who was hurt, after what he'd just done--after what he'd been doing to them for weeks--after _today,_ and the slow campaign of torture he'd waged on Porthos, the fucking psychological warfare it had felt like--

He threw himself against Porthos' grip, the motion and the restraint carrying him weeks back to their fight after the party, and this was just like it, it was awful and vitriolic and screaming, and Athos _couldn't stop._ "Do you just not _think?"_ he hurled at Aramis, his heart pounding hard enough to make him dizzy. "That's the only _conceivable_ excuse I could imagine for you doing this--for something this fucking sadistic--"

"Don't you _dare!"_ Aramis snarled, his dark eyes flashing, and he shoved angrily forward--and then d'Artagnan and Constance were there, holding him back, and Athos abruptly realized the entire floor was circled around them, watching. The fucking music was still going, but their hallmates and the other fencers were dead silent. 

How had they come to this? Screaming their lungs out at each other, in front of everyone they knew, with their friends having to hold them back from each other?

"I didn't do this to hurt you!" Aramis yelled, and Athos saw red. Literal red, blood thumping through his head so forcefully and loudly he couldn't see or hear anything else. And Aramis went on-- "I'm _sorry,_ all right?"

"I _took you home!"_ Athos shouted, and Porthos had to drag him back again as he surged forward. He'd completely lost it, lost control of the words pouring out of him; he _couldn't stop._ "I put you to fucking _bed,_ I _stayed_ with you--so now you know I'm not going anywhere, you think it's fine to fucking _torture_ me? You _heartless--"_

 _"Don't you DARE call me heartless!"_ Aramis screamed, and Constance and d'Artagnan nearly lost their grip on him as he thrashed in their hold. His dark eyes were streaming tears. "You think this is fucking _easy_ for me, you think if I didn't give a shit I'd be doing even _half_ of what I am--"

"Half of _what?"_ Athos spat back, and Porthos had both arms around him now, holding him safely close. "What the fuck _have_ you been doing other than the same fucking irresponsible careless shit you always do--you have no _fucking_ idea what it does to us--"

Aramis' bitter, cracking laugh was static in his ears. "Because the world fucking revolves around you--"

"You were _in my bed!"_ Athos didn't know how else to yell it, to _scream_ it, to make him see how much it had fucking hurt. "You don't even care enough to go _home!"_

"I thought I had!"

Athos stilled in Porthos' grip, staring at Aramis, his words suddenly gone. Aramis hung in Constance and d'Artagnan's arms, looking broken, _defeated_ at having to admit that, and Athos shook his head slowly. 

"No," he said, his raw voice breaking, "no, _no,_ you don't get to say that, you don't get to _say_ my room is still fucking _home_ to you when it's hasn't been for three weeks, you can't _do_ that!" And _now_ he was fucking crying, _now_ there were tears in his eyes because _how fucking dare he_ but Athos still _missed_ him, every part of him ached to know there was still some part of Aramis that thought of him as home.

Aramis' face twisted in a grimace. "I don't have a fucking _excuse_ otherwise, all right? This isn't some huge calculated campaign to hurt you, Athos, I don't fucking _plan_ all of this--"

And Athos was furious again, suddenly, bile rising in his chest and his throat tight. "You _cannot_ tell me," he spat, "that the last three weeks haven't been fucking deliberate, when the two of us have fucking prostrated ourselves at your feet to save this friendship, and _this_ is how you fucking thank us?"

Aramis flushed, shaking his head in furious denial. "I never asked you to, I never _wanted_ you to--"

"No, _we_ wanted to!" Athos shot back, blinking furiously to keep his angry tears from spilling over. "Because we fucking _care,_ we wanted to make us _work_ and this is how you fucking answer? Fine, _fine,_ you'll get it, a clean break like you fucking wanted--"

"I _don't_ want that!" Aramis surged forward in Constance and d'Artagnan's arms, and there were tears in his eyes, too, and a manic wildness that Athos had never seen in him and didn't know how to parse. "I don't want that, but fine, if that's how you see it, fucking _fine--"_ He gasped in a breath, and he was crying in earnest now, his face still twisted in anger and his voice as raw-edged as Athos'. "I don't know why I pretended you'd ever see anything I ever did as something more than just another _fuckup,_ Aramis the eternal fucking waste of space and time, I have no _fucking_ clue why I bothered when you just have--" He laughed again, hysterically, bitterly. "No _fucking_ idea--"

"Right," Athos hurled at him, "you're right, I have no fucking idea why you'd ever do something this callous and _cruel--_ "

Aramis' hysterical laugh sang out again, and he looked completely lost, completely wild. "You just don't _know--"_

"You're right, I don't," Athos said, furious and exhausted and heartsick and _done,_ just fucking _done_ with it all. "All I know is that the next time you decide to break our hearts fucking the _knockoff_ version of Porthos, have the _decency_ to do it in your _own--fucking--room!"_

He screamed the last three words, and Porthos' arm lay like a lead bar across his chest--

And Aramis froze.

His wild, manic brown eyes were huge, the color drained from his face, and everything stopped. It just stopped. They were both panting wildly, and Athos sagged in Porthos' hold, completely drained--he'd said it, he'd fucking said it, he'd good as thrown it in Aramis' face, what Aramis had been doing to them all day--and Aramis' eyes were huge on Athos' face.

Aramis hadn't known, Athos realized then. Aramis hadn't even -noticed- how like Porthos the Brandeis boy had been.

Aramis hadn't known.

And Aramis' huge eyes slid slowly to Porthos' face, and Athos could feel Porthos' chest heaving behind him--with the effort of holding Athos, or with emotion, he didn't know. 

Aramis and Porthos stared at each other in utter silence.

Aramis swayed on his feet, wrenching his eyes away, and Athos watched his entire body crumple in on itself.

He pushed d'Artagnan out of the way, the boy's hold going slack on him, and Constance let him go in surprise--because Aramis wasn't shoving toward Athos and Porthos, he was running to the stair door. He threw his whole body into it and hurried down the stairs, out of sight.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Porthos' arm fell from around Athos' chest.

Athos felt like he was waking up from a dream. A very sick, very twisted nightmare. 

Constance and d'Artagnan were staring at him, and there were tear tracks on Constance's face. After a moment, she turned and hurried down the stairs after Aramis. D'Artagnan flashed Athos a sad, reproachful look, and went after her.

Athos turned slowly to look at Porthos, his heart sinking in his chest, and Porthos gazed steadily back at him. There was a terrible look of resignation on Porthos' face--an awful, dull acceptance that broke Athos' heart.

Porthos looked around, then, and Athos jolted back into awareness of what he'd just done.

The rest of the team, the fencers from other schools, their guests--they all stood in a loose ring around them, just staring.

"What?" Porthos snapped, and everyone jumped. "You've never seen a fucking breakup before?"

Breakup.

_Breakup._

Athos turned and fled. The onlookers melted out of his way, and he stumbled down the hall to his bedroom.

He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it, shaking. Breakup. They'd broken up. He'd broken up with Aramis, and by the looks of it, Porthos, too. Why would he stay with Athos after this? He'd had to hold Athos back as Athos had systematically and utterly destroyed their relationship with Aramis. Why else would Aramis have fled like that? Athos had torn him to pieces.

Of course, Aramis had torn him apart first, but that didn't make it all right. That didn't make it okay.

And now it was never going to be okay, ever again.

He was going to throw up. He was going to cry. He felt another panic attack beating at his temples like the wings of a bird, and Athos staggered to his desk.

He braced his arms on it, staring down and unseeing. 

He could take the pills. He wouldn't have to think about Aramis anymore--but more than that, this is what they were for, wasn't it? To control the onrushing panic, the hyperventilation and anxiety and crushing feeling in his chest. 

He'd been done with them for nearly four whole years, he didn't want to throw all that away, but--but--

His door opened behind him, and Athos whirled around, his heart pounding in his throat.

Porthos gently closed the door behind himself, and looked up at him.

Athos had to catch himself against his desk so he didn't collapse in shock. _How are you still here?_ he nearly asked, nearly cried. _How badly do I have to fuck up for you to leave me?_

Neither of them spoke. Porthos leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the ground, and Athos didn't know what to say. He felt weak with relief, with fear, with the overwhelming release of emotion.

"So I guess that's it, then, huh?" Porthos said finally, his voice very quiet.

Athos swallowed. He didn't know what was left in him to answer that. 

"I broke him, Porthos," he said. 

Porthos sighed and reached up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "We all broke each other," he said. He looked up at last, and his eyes were overbright by the light of the desk lamp. "You want me to stay or go?"

Athos pushed himself off from his desk and took two stumbling steps across the room. Porthos looked so, so relieved as he held out his arms and let Athos burrow into his chest. 

"I'm so sorry, Porthos," Athos said, barely audible. 

"It's okay," Porthos said, stroking over his back. He sounded resigned, again--just sad, and quiet, and empty. "It needed saying."

Maybe it did, but not in the way Athos had said it. He pressed his face against Porthos' shirt, feeling the hot wetness of his own tears seep into the fabric.

"C'mon, babe," Porthos said softly, and he tugged Athos toward the bed.

Athos followed blindly, just wanting to sink down and forget about it all--but then Porthos drew up short, and Athos looked up to see what it was.

The comforter had been thrown back, and the sheets were rumpled. 

Oh, right.

Aramis.

"You got a second set of sheets?" Porthos said, his throat thick.

Athos nodded silently, and the two of them stripped his bed in utter silence. Aramis' scent lingered, fading notes in the air, and the back of Athos' throat burned with tears, with nausea.

The second set of sheets was in the top of his closet, with an extra comforter he pulled out for the frozen days, and as Porthos bundled up the ones Aramis had--used, Athos brought down the clean ones. There was a peculiar sense of ritual--of _ending_ \--in the actions. Athos and Porthos had used those sheets, too--the first time. Athos doubted he'd ever be able to sleep on them again.

They made the bed; they laid down; they held each other.

They held each other for a long time. Athos curled into Porthos, and Porthos' whole body wrapped around him, achingly intimate and so tenderly that Athos felt tears burning his eyes again. Porthos was still here. Porthos hadn't left.

Maybe Porthos wouldn't leave at all.

Porthos kissed his hair, stroked the back of his neck with a slightly trembling hand, and every now and then his chest shivered a little, like he was holding back tears. Athos wanted to apologize, and didn't know how. He'd just destroyed everything himself; he hadn't even given Porthos a chance to try and save it. 

"Porthos," he said, his voice cracking, "I--"

"I would have done the same," Porthos whispered, and he sounded so guilty. "I would have done the same, Athos, if you hadn't done it first, so don't apologize."

Well, then. Athos curled himself even tighter into Porthos' body, and Porthos held him closer.

It could have been hours later when a tentative tap at the door startled Athos out of his daze. Porthos' arms tensed around him, and Athos pressed himself against Porthos even more. No. Just--no. He couldn't handle anything else tonight.

"Athos?" came the hesitant voice. "Porthos?"

Athos' whole body seized up, and all Porthos' breath left his chest in a shuddering huff.

_Aramis?_

"Athos, Porthos, please."

Athos' fingers twisted in the fabric of Porthos' shirt. Porthos' arms were locked around him, unmoving, and he felt Porthos swallow.

"Yeah," Porthos said, his voice cracking, and shivers erupted over Athos' skin.

They were both still too stunned to move, but Aramis must have heard, because the doorknob turned. 

Athos' eyes flashed up to see Aramis slip inside, his head ducked and his eyes downcast. Everything about him was hunched and small. "I really need to talk to you two," he said quietly, as he closed the door behind himself, and paced a few steps away. "And I need to--"

He looked up, then, saw them on the bed for the first time, and stopped dead.

Athos turned his head to look at him fully, felt Porthos do the same--and when Athos saw the frozen look of despair on Aramis' face, he suddenly realized _exactly_ what Aramis was seeing.

The two of them, wrapped around each other, clearly so much closer than they ever had done in front of him, before, and Aramis knew them so well. He knew them _too_ well.

Aramis knew exactly what they'd been keeping from him, and he was just as hurt as Athos and Porthos had known he would be.

After everything Athos had said to him tonight, everything he'd thrown in Aramis' face--Aramis was still hurt by this?

Aramis' eyes filled with tears, and he took a step back, colliding with Athos' closet door. "Never mind, I'm interrupting," he said in a rush, his voice choked. "I'll just go."

"Don't," Porthos said, and he pushed himself upright so quickly Athos' mind reeled at the sudden loss of his warmth. "Aramis, don't, wait--"

"No, really, it's fine," Aramis said, turning to the door, and he was crying, there were tears in his eyes again. And after everything that had happened, how much he had hurt them, Athos still couldn't bear to have him leave like this-- "It's fine, I'll just--"

"Don't!" Porthos leaped off the bed, and in two steps he'd gotten to the door first and put a hand on the edge of it, so Aramis couldn't pull it open. "Aramis, don't go, please, just--stay for a minute, let us explain--"

"Let me go, Porthos," Aramis said, staring at the door, at his hand on the doorknob, anywhere but at Porthos, his voice low and controlled and _breaking._

"No," Porthos said, and he was _pleading_ with him. "No, just--not yet, _please,_ let us talk to you--"

Aramis rounded on him then, his tears spilling over. "What else is there to say?" he demanded, reaching up and wiping furiously at his face. "Hmm, Porthos? Do you have anything else to add to Athos' absolutely lovely litany of my egregious faults?"

Athos burned with shame, and he pushed himself up off the bed, not knowing what to do but sure that he couldn't just _sit_ there while this happened.

"No," Porthos said, desperate now. "No, Aramis, honestly, it isn't that at all, it's--" He looked wildly back over his shoulder at Athos, looking torn. "We want to save this, we don't want to lose you, can we just _talk,_ please--"

"Why?" Aramis hurled at him, his face drawn with pain. Porthos threw up his hands and paced away, his hands twisting into his hair and his face tightening into a pained grimace--this was Porthos barely clinging to control, and Aramis kept on. "What is there _possibly_ left-- _why?"_

"Because I can't fucking _live_ like this anymore!" Porthos exploded, whirling to face them both.

Aramis froze. Athos stared at him.

Porthos had never shouted like that before.

And now, standing before them both, panting, he looked ashamed of himself for even having done it. He swallowed, ran a hand over his face, and said in a more normal tone, "I cannot _fucking_ live like this anymore, you two." He drew a shaky breath, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "I did not sign up for this fucking agony, of having one of you, or _none_ of you, and all of us--cutting little pieces off each other for weeks on end. I can't do it. I _won't_ do it." He looked back and forth between them, his face set with all the misery he hadn't let either of them see for weeks, and Athos' heart fractured in his chest.

He took Porthos for granted. He relied on Porthos' strength so much--took so much of it for himself, for his own need--and Porthos had barely had enough to keep himself together.

"I am not going to let this fall apart," Porthos said quietly, his voice unsteady and his hands shaking at his sides. He swallowed, hard. "You two can scream at each other all you want, but you do not get to end this without my say-so."

The silence stretched.

Then Aramis reached behind himself and pushed the lock in on the door. 

Porthos drew in a relieved breath, and Athos took a step closer to him. 

"Thank you," Porthos said, his voice trembling. "Aramis, can you--can you sit down, we have to tell you something and I think you'll wanna be sitting."

"I know you do," Aramis said, and he was staring at the ground again. "I know, but--can I go first? I promise, it's--it's important, I need to get through it, and then, I promise, we can talk about whatever you want."

Athos and Porthos shared a long look. 

This was it, Athos knew. There wasn't any coming back from this.

"All right," Athos said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16 will be posted Monday, November 17, at 9PM CST.
> 
> If you need me, as always, you can find me [on tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk that's been a long time in coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for past episodes of religion-typical homophobia, bullying, and emotional abuse.

The three of them stood in an awkward, lopsided triangle. There was no equilibrium, no sense of balance, and Athos hated it. It was almost a relief to think that for better or worse, they'd be settling into some new kind of balance tonight.

Athos cleared his throat, and Porthos' head twitched towards him, even as he didn't take his eyes off Aramis. "Aramis," Athos said in would-be steady tones, "would you sit down?"

Aramis didn't lift his gaze from the ground, but he nodded jerkily and moved around the edge of the bed. He kept a careful radius from Porthos, and he didn't even come near Athos' space.

As he passed, Athos sank slowly down onto the beanbag opposite the bed. It would have enough space for Porthos, too, and Athos prayed he wouldn't have to sit by himself through this.

Aramis sat very carefully on the edge of Athos' bed, his hands gripping the edge. He smoothed the creases his legs made in the comforter, and he blinked very rapidly. He had to have noticed it was a different blanket. "Just," he began, and had to clear his throat. "Just let me say all of this. And then I promise I'll shut up, and you can say what you want, but if I don't get this all out in one go, I don't think I'll be able to, at all."

Porthos sat down heavily beside Athos, and Athos was so fucking grateful he could barely stand it. They shared a look, and Athos nodded, looking over to Aramis. "Okay," he said.

"Whatever you need," Porthos added softly, and his fingers slipped into Athos'. Hidden from Aramis' view by their legs, Porthos gripped Athos' hand so tightly he nearly felt his joints pop.

Aramis wasn't even looking. He stared at his knees, at his fingers moving restlessly on the stitches of the comforter. "Okay," he echoed. He took a deep breath and swallowed, and he pushed a hand through his hair. "You remember Marsac," he began. It wasn't a question.

Athos and Porthos shared another glance. "Yeah," Porthos said. Athos couldn't believe he kept his voice even as he answered. Porthos' eyes flashed like a storm at the _mention_ of Aramis' former--whatever.

"I didn't tell you the whole story when I said he was my ex." Aramis spoke quickly and without emotion, and Athos didn't know if that was Aramis protecting himself from his memories or from their reactions. It was that same cold, distant Aramis they'd seen for weeks, since Halloween. "We were friends for a long time. Our boarding school started at eighth grade, and we fenced on the school's team together. We spent all our time together, actually. I think I always knew he was protective of me, and I was--so close to him--" Aramis swallowed, stumbling over the words a little, and he looked so pained. "But it wasn't until junior year that we realized we'd fallen for each other."

He reached up and wiped at his eyes again, and Athos knew that look on someone's face, that bittersweet and sad look of memory.

Porthos saved him. "Was he your first?"

Aramis shook his head minutely. "No," he said. "He was the first person I ever really loved, though. I trusted him like no one I'd ever known, I told him--" His voice cracked, and he swallowed again, his throat hitching convulsively. "Well. Lots of things. It doesn't matter now." He reached up and wiped briskly at his eyes. "But we had to be careful. You know it was--"

"Catholic school," Athos supplied quietly, dread sinking into the pit of his stomach. Aramis had said, on Halloween, that he and Marsac had never gotten closure.

Aramis nodded. "Got lectured about the dangers of homosexuality every other Thursday, about lust and perversion and wickedness, and we were in northern California, you know, so this was after Prop 8 and it was all just--not a good place to be a queer Mexican boy. I came out as bi to my mom and dad when I was twelve, and my _abuela_ when I was thirteen--but we all kept it quiet, I didn't want to--" He laughed mirthlessly. "Get the shit kicked out of me."

It was strange to Athos to even envision a version of Aramis who wasn't out and proud and _loud_ about it. How hard had Aramis swung in reverse once he graduated, then, as defiance and freedom let him be who he was?

"So school was terrifying," Aramis went on. "Loving him, and the two of us needing to sneak around all the time. We made it through junior year, senior fall we got our scholarships to Dumas, and then..." He paused, then, long enough that Athos realized he was choosing his words very carefully, and Athos suddenly knew where this was going. His fingers closed convulsively around Porthos', and he felt Porthos go rigid beside him.

Aramis must have felt their tension, because he gave another mirthless smile, his eyes devoid of feeling. "Yeah. We were careless. Halfway through spring semester, Sister Mary Frances caught me on my knees in the locker room praying to his cock instead of Jesus." 

"Shit, Aramis," Porthos said softly, and Athos could hear the worry, the _fear_ there. 

Aramis shook his head, reaching up to wipe at his eyes again, with that bitter half-smile fixed on. Athos had never heard him sound so harsh before, or heard his voice this thick with hate and guilt turned inward. "They dragged us up to the headmaster's office, and they put us in separate rooms and said 'no' every time I asked to see him. I cried, I _begged,_ and they wouldn't let me. It was the scariest fucking thing. And then they just--went at me."

He took a deep breath then, his face pale, and he spoke even faster, like he needed to get it out (and Athos wondered, suddenly, if Aramis had ever talked about this before, to anyone). "I didn't know what to do--there wasn't anybody there on my side. It felt like half the nuns in the school, almost all the priests, and they just--they were all there telling me how sinful it was, how it was wicked and wrong. Lust, abomination, against the Bible, and they knew I loved God, I was a good kid otherwise with a good future ahead of me, but this was a cardinal sin and--" 

He sucked in another breath, his eyes half-wild, and Athos watched him visibly calm himself. "I had to confess," he went on, much more quietly. "I had to take confession from the priests and repent right then and there, or they'd expel me."

Porthos let out his breath in a soft growl. Athos pressed a calming hand to his knee. It was painful--it was _infuriating,_ that these adults who were supposed to guide him, supposed to _protect_ him, had been so cruel.

Aramis didn't even seem to notice their reactions. He rubbed his hands over his face, pressing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I already had my fencing scholarship here," he said softly. "It was all I wanted, all I'd really ever wanted. I was getting _out._ I was barely eighteen, I was scared fucking shitless, I was all alone, and I could see the door just--slamming shut on my fucking future--"

Aramis closed his mouth, closed his eyes, and breathed. This had to be the worst memory of his life, and Athos wished there had been some other way, any other way, for them to find out. 

And then Aramis shrugged, a tiny little thing that cut to the bone with how much it was hiding. "So I gave him up," he said. "I apologized. I gave my confession, I prayed, I asked them to bless me--I told them I was wrong and it was weakness and I knew better, I was sorry." He shook his head, his eyes dull. "I didn't believe a fucking word of it, of course. I figured Marsac was doing the same thing. It didn't matter what we said--we loved each other, and God didn't give a fuck. We'd just have to be extra-careful until we graduated and got out and came here. Together."

Athos and Porthos sat silently, their apprehension tangible in the air. They both knew that hadn't happened. Aramis hadn't even said his _name_ for three years.

Aramis didn't soften the blow when it came. "But when they let me out, and I worked up enough guts to ask where he was, Sister Maria told me he was gone. He didn't do it." His face twisted into an awful, tearful approximation of a smile. "He wouldn't give me up." 

So many things made so much sense now. Aramis' sudden withdrawal, the cold wall he'd drawn up when he thought he'd lose them--of course he'd done that. Of course he had. He'd had everything ripped away from him once before. 

Guilt and shame lay thick in Athos' throat. He hadn't known, but still--he'd been so cruel. They should have tried harder to understand; they should have been kinder. They should have let Aramis come to them with this in his own time.

"I knew they'd stop me if I tried to call him from a school phone," Aramis said softly. "I emailed him and he never answered. His cell phone number disconnected. He just dropped off the face of the planet, and I never saw him again--not until this Halloween."

Several things fell heavily, painfully into place in Athos' mind. _They took me away from you,_ Marsac had said, and when it looked like they had fought--Aramis had seemed so broken, he hadn't been able to stop apologizing, and had Marsac _blamed_ him? For being terrified out of his mind and trying to save his future?

 _You know I didn't mean it,_ Aramis had whispered--had _begged_ him to understand. And he hadn't. He'd thrown it in Aramis' face and made him feel even more guilty, instead of wiping away the pain he'd carried for four years.

Athos hated him more than ever, now.

"You can guess how it was after that," Aramis said, his eyes still determinedly on the ground. His voice was flat again, like he was reading the words off, written on the rug. Athos wondered if he'd practiced this. "Everybody fucking knew, and everybody treated me like shit. I was pretty popular before, but then--the teachers judged the fuck out of me, all my classmates either pretended I didn't exist or treated me like a fucking leper." His face twisted into another bitter smile. "Well. Not a leper. Then they'd have thought Jesus would cure me."

He sucked in a deep breath. "But it was the other gay kids--well, I don't know if they were, but the kids that I'd, y'know, thought maybe were like me--" He sighed. "They were just trying to protect themselves. They were scared, too. But they lashed out the hardest, trying to distance themselves from me, and that was the worst part, really. So if you've ever wondered why I'm apt to go off on white gay boys throwing the rest of us under the bus, well, now you know."

Porthos winced, and Athos felt a dull kind of horror. They'd never known. How had they never known that their bright-eyed Aramis had had this kind of warfare leveled against him? How had Aramis been able to keep it all inside?

"It sucked," Aramis said dully. "But it was only a few months, and then I got out. I went home, mom and I moved to West Hollywood so I could be as queer as I fucking wanted, and she put me back together before fall. And then I came here, and I thought it'd be perfect, y'know, I thought I'd be able to start over with a clean slate and everything would be great."

Athos smiled faintly. He'd felt the same way.

But Aramis paused, then, and his hands rubbed nervously at the knees of his jeans. "So, um," he began, clearly forcing the words, "you can probably imagine how fucking terrifying it was when I realized it was happening again."

Porthos' hand tightened on Athos'.

"Not--not in the same way," Aramis went on, his eyes moving restlessly back and forth on the carpet. "But close enough that I made myself _not_ do it, I wasn't going to fuck it up like that again. And it was fine, I thought it was fine, it carried me through until I saw Marsac again and he made me realize, made me fucking choke on it--" 

He gritted his teeth, his hands coming up to grab at his hair. "He threw it in my fucking face, the shit I do without even thinking, and as much as I wanted to say he was wrong, I just--I couldn't pretend I didn't know what he was talking about--and it was so _obvious,_ all of the sudden, how much of a willfully clueless fucking _jackass_ I'd been--"

Athos' heartbeat spiked in his chest. He felt like he was half a step behind, like there was something Aramis was assuming they knew that they didn't--but--but there could only really be one thing Aramis was talking about--wasn't there?

"And I should have realized, I _should_ have," Aramis said furiously, his hands twisting in his hair. "I should have known ages ago but I was too much of a fucking coward to even consider it, but once Marsac showed up and shoved it down my throat--I, I couldn't pretend anymore, so I panicked, y'know?" 

Aramis pressed his palms to his temples like he was trying to keep his thoughts inside, shaking his head back and forth. "I panicked, because the last time it happened, I lost _everything._ Everything, okay, you have to understand that--I had friends and someone I loved and then I had _nothing_ \--" He looked desperate, his words tumbling over each other. "So just--you have to know, that's what I was operating on, I didn't have any other frame of reference, I just knew I couldn't lose everything all over again, I had to make it stop. And I figured if I could make it stop, then it would be easier, I could figure shit out and make it okay--but of course that wasn't how it fucking worked, and then I just broke _everything_ \--"

"Aramis," Porthos said, and Aramis fell instantly silent. There was an intensity to Porthos' voice Athos had never heard before, and when he looked up, he saw Porthos staring fixedly at Aramis, an unguarded, _hopeful_ light in his eyes. "Aramis, what are you trying to say?"

Aramis closed his eyes and shook his head, his hands sliding to cover his mouth. For a long moment he sat there, rocking back and forth and looking as scared as Athos had ever seen him.

"Aramis, it's okay," Athos said. It was so fucking inadequate, but he needed to say _something._ He wasn't angry anymore. He wasn't even close to being angry. The hope in Porthos' eyes had kindled an answering fire in Athos' chest--was Aramis saying what they thought he was trying to say? If this was the same as what had happened in high school, and he'd been terrified history would repeat itself and he'd lose them--

That had all happened because he and Marsac--because he--

Aramis dropped his hands and looked up at them, and Athos' thoughts all fell to pieces. There were tears standing in Aramis' eyes, a lack of hope and a _shame_ there that Athos never wanted to see on his face ever again. 

"I think," Aramis said, his voice barely above a whisper, "that I've been in love with you both for a really long time."

Athos' heart shuddered to a stop. 

_What?_

"Oh, fuck--oh, Jesus, please don't look at me like that," Aramis said desperately, at whatever he saw on their faces--at the way Athos had gone rigid, the way Porthos had clearly stopped breathing beside him. "I know, I _know,_ the way I've treated you isn't the way you treat your _friends,_ let alone people you've loved more than life itself since the day you met them--and it is _both_ of you, I know it's ridiculous but I don't think I could ever choose and you both make me feel so--so--anyway, whatever, it's--it's fine, it's _really_ fine if you don't feel the same, I don't--I don't expect you to." 

He laughed, a little hysterically again, and his face was shiny with tears and his eyes were wild, and Athos felt a very peculiar urge to grab him and kiss him. "I mean, shit," Aramis half-laughed, despairingly, "I mean, _I_ wouldn't feel the same way about me, not after what I've done to you--I just, I had to tell you, you had to know _why_ I've tried to cut you out of my life, because I suddenly was so overwhelmingly aware that I couldn't live without you and that scared me to _death,_ it just sent me back to that fucking tiny room with everyone telling me I was sinful and awful and I thought--"

He sucked in a high breath, swallowed hard, and forced out, "I thought you'd be better off without me anyway, since we all know I turn everything I touch to shit and I'm a needy fucked-up mess and who the fuck would love me anyway, so--"

And at that, Porthos moved. In one fluid surge, he pushed himself off the beanbag and dropped to his knees beside the bed, and Aramis cringed away, like he thought Porthos was going to hit him--and it _killed_ Athos, that Aramis was so afraid that he couldn't even trust the two of them not to hurt him.

But Porthos reached up and held onto Aramis' shoulders instead, keeping him close, and Aramis blinked and stared at him, his brown eyes huge. Porthos was tall enough that they were on a level, with Porthos kneeling up and Aramis hunched and small, and from where he sat, Athos could just see the wild, desperate hope on Porthos' face.

"Say it again," Porthos said, his voice cracking on the words. His eyes were wide, pleading, and Athos felt like the world had stopped spinning--frozen, waiting for Aramis' word to restart it. "Aramis, say it again, say that you mean it."

Aramis stared down at Porthos in utter shock, looking soft and vulnerable and _beautiful_ like Athos had never seen him, and could he really not understand, even now? "Porthos?"

Porthos' hands slid up Aramis' shoulders to frame his face, and something broke in Aramis' expression when Porthos' thumbs traced over his cheekbones. His eyelashes fluttered, his mouth falling open slightly, and he stared at Porthos like he was the entire world.

"Say it again," Porthos breathed, gazing up at him.

Aramis blinked, his wide eyes dark and overwhelmed, and his throat clicked when he swallowed. He looked so _scared._ His hands trembled where they lay limply in his lap, and Athos wanted to take them between his, take all of Aramis into his arms and hold him, because--because Aramis--

Was he dreaming? Was this _happening?_

"Aramis," he said, low and pleading. "Tell us, _please."_

Aramis' eyes flickered between Athos and Porthos, desperate and afraid and, God, Athos felt the agony on Aramis' face like it was his own.

Porthos' fingers smoothed over Aramis' face again, like he just couldn't help himself, and Aramis' gaze snapped back to Porthos. 

For a very long moment, the two of them stared at each other. They'd always been so good at speaking without words.

"I love you," Aramis whispered, barely loud enough to hear. "Both of you. So much. I'm so sorry."

I love you.

_Both of you._

_I love you._

Aramis loved them.

Athos sat frozen, overwhelmed, as shock and relief and _joy_ swelled up and drowned him.

Porthos did not.

Porthos rocked forward on his knees, surging up as his hands tightened on Aramis' face and pulled him closer, and Aramis' breath caught in his chest--

And then Porthos froze bare inches from Aramis' face, stopping himself like he'd hit a wall, and Aramis swayed, his huge brown eyes locked on Porthos'.

"I really want to kiss you right now," Porthos exhaled in a rush. "Aramis, can I kiss you, please?"

Athos' throat closed on his breath, and he watched, paralyzed.

Aramis' mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his face pale and shocked, and he pressed forward into Porthos' touch. "Yes," he said after an interminable second. "Yes, you can."

Porthos' breath left his chest in a rush, and he and Aramis stared at each other for another moment that seemed to drag out forever.

Then Porthos rocked forward and crushed Aramis' mouth to his, and Aramis' entire body went boneless against Porthos' chest. His face screwed up like he was in pain as Porthos kissed him--eyes squeezed shut, mouth curling into a grimace as Porthos' lips moved over it--

And then he let it out all with a gasping, wracking sob, and threw his arms around Porthos' neck, clinging to him for dear life and kissing him, _kissing him back._

They were the most gorgeous thing Athos had ever seen.

When they broke apart, they were both panting, and Athos could see tears shining in Porthos' eyes as he sat back on his heels and reached up to Aramis' face. His fingers traced over Aramis' cheeks, his lips, his hair, slowly, soothing the worried lines from Aramis' skin.

"I--" Aramis' voice broke, and he swallowed hard, looking pleadingly between Athos and Porthos. "I don't--I don't understand." _Tell me,_ his eyes were begging. _Please, please, what am I missing?_

And Athos' heart _broke_ for him, because Athos knew exactly how it felt--to have so little regard for yourself that someone else loving you would never cross your mind--

But Aramis was perfect, he was love incarnate, it was a _crime_ that he couldn't even guess why.

"Aramis," he said, breathless himself. "Aramis, we've both been fucking _gone_ for you for years, since we _met,_ how could you not know?"

Aramis stared at him. Then he looked sharply to Porthos, and there was only Porthos' steady gaze like sunlight looking back up at him.

And Athos saw the exact moment Aramis believed them. 

Because in one moment, the nerves, the doubt, the _terror_ on his face--it all disappeared, and his eyes started to warm with a fragile, gentle hope. "Really?" he asked, his voice still no more than a breath, but this was different--this wasn't Aramis so afraid he could barely speak, this was Aramis _breathless._

"Really," Porthos said, his hands moving smoothly down Aramis' arms to take his hands. His voice was low, impossibly low and gentle, and color flooded into Aramis' cheeks. Aramis' deep, dark eyes went wide, and he smiled--this half-formed, tiny thing that was just barely starting. Athos had never loved anything the way he loved Aramis right now, in this second, with that look on his face.

Porthos laughed, a low, rich sound that just bubbled up out of him, and Aramis looked so sweet and soft when he looked down at Porthos, marveling at that sound. Porthos sat up slightly, squeezing Aramis' hands, and he was _beaming_ like Athos hadn't seen him smile in weeks. _"Really,_ Aramis, you--you never knew? You never even guessed?"

Aramis shook his head, looking bewildered and delighted and just--overwhelmed with it. "No, never, I--I didn't _want_ to know, I was too scared history would repeat itself, I--" He faltered, his smile fading slightly, and he looked away. "I didn't think you two could ever want me," he said softly. 

And _that_ was what made Athos move at last. He shoved himself upright and half-launched himself across the space between the beanbag and the bed, and Aramis looked up at him, startled, when Athos sat down beside him and covered Porthos' and Aramis' hands with his own.

"Don't you _ever,"_ he said fiercely, "think that we wouldn't want you. Don't ever, Aramis."

Aramis closed his eyes, and next to him, Athos could still feel his trembling, even if it wasn't visible anymore. "But I--" He swallowed. "You--"

Athos hated himself more than he ever had in that moment, and in desperation he reached up and took Aramis' face in his own hands. Aramis' eyes snapped open in shock, and staring into those deep, glorious eyes, Athos was viscerally aware of how long it had been since he'd told Aramis how much he _mattered,_ how Athos' life wouldn't be the same without him-- 

"I was wrong," he said, his voice breaking on the words. "Aramis, I was _wrong,_ about all of it, do you hear me? I was wrong, and I'm sorry." 

Aramis' eyes went soft and luminous, and Athos swallowed, momentarily dazed at having all that emotion and expression directed at him. 

It took him a moment to find his voice again, cracking and uneven though it was. "I'm sorry, Aramis," he said, and with that clear, everything just poured out of him in a rush. "Everything I said was fucking cruel and terrible and if I could take every word of it back, I would--but I can't, I know I can't, so you just have to believe me, that I was sad and jealous and I let all that shit turn me into a fucking monster. I never should have said a word of it, I never should have said you didn't care." He stroked his thumbs over Aramis' cheeks, just overwhelmed by the closeness of him, the _sense_ of him again, after so long. He couldn't stop _touching_ him. "Because you do, you care so much more than anyone I've ever met, and I'm so sorry for what I said to you, I just wanted to make you hurt as badly as I did, and that was sick and fucked-up and I'm _sorry."_

Aramis sucked in a shuddering breath and let it out in a trembling exhale, and his eyes were deep enough to drown in as he and Athos looked at each other. "I hurt you first," Aramis said softly. 

Athos shook his head, pushing his fingers through Aramis' hair. "You could have physically reached into my chest and ripped out my heart, and it still wouldn't have made it okay for me to say what I said to you."

Aramis gave a shaky laugh, and he pressed into Athos' touch. "Oh, Athos," he said, his voice unsteady. "I'm sorry, too."

"Thank fucking God," Porthos sighed from the floor, and they both looked quickly down at him. Porthos smiled up at them, a wry lopsided thing overflowing with emotion, and his dark eyes were shining, too. "Do you have any idea how fucking long I've waited for you both to fuckin' _talk_ to each other?"

Aramis laughed, and Athos felt an overwhelming surge of feeling for Porthos wash over him and break like a wave. "Porthos," he said softly. 

Porthos gazed steadily up at him. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry I drove you to breaking," Athos said, his throat tightening on the words.

"We both did," Aramis said, and his thumb stroked gently over Porthos' knuckles. "I'm sorry it came to it, but thank you for shouting us into submission."

Porthos' smile went lopsided and achingly gentle, and it soaked into Athos like warmth from a new fire, filling all the little cracks and broken pieces in his chest. "Oh, any time," Porthos half-laughed.

And that was it, Athos was finished, he couldn't stand not touching him any longer.

"Porthos," he said again, his voice low and aching, not sure how to beg _please, please hold us--_ But like always, Porthos knew exactly what he meant.

Porthos pushed up onto his knees and wrapped his arms around both of them. Aramis' arms tentatively came around Porthos and Athos, and it felt so _good,_ Aramis being _here,_ holding them both. Athos' arms wrapped around them both, too, more eager to return an embrace than he'd ever been in his life, and that was it.

The three of them held each other, their heartbeats steadying out and falling into sync, and Athos could breathe again.

"So that's what that feels like," he murmured, overwhelmed.

Aramis pulled back slightly, and Porthos sat back on his heels, still holding on to each of their hands. "What?" Aramis asked, tilting his head. 

Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat, looking between them. 

"Home," he said.

His eyes were on Aramis, so it was Aramis whose eyes he watched go even deeper and softer than before. "Athos," he said, like he couldn't say anything else, and Athos held his gaze despite the blush he felt crawling up the back of his neck.

"I know," Porthos said softly. "When he gets going, he can really hit you, can't he?"

Athos looked down at him, and he found Porthos gazing back at him with a soft, sweet look of such utter affection and _pride_ that his whole body tingled with a rush of warmth.

Aramis looked back and forth between them, and his hesitant smile grew slightly. "So," he began, and Athos and Porthos tore their gazes away from each other to look at him. Aramis flushed slightly under their scrutiny, but he went on anyway. "I'm guessing that you two--that your, um, affections are not solely set on me?"

Athos flushed even deeper and looked down at Porthos--who was looking at him _like that_ again, and Aramis was looking at him, too, and his skin felt too tight and too hot to contain everything he was feeling.

"No," Porthos said slowly, a wicked smile playing around his lips. "No, we've loved you for years, we both knew that, but this was--sorta new."

"When?" Aramis asked softly.

Athos dragged his gaze away from Porthos again to fix it on Aramis' face. Aramis looked a little hesitant again, but he held Athos' gaze. There was a hint of that worry again, that fear, and Athos cupped Aramis' face in his hand again, smoothing his thumb over Aramis' cheekbone to ease it away. "It--it wasn't because we didn't still want you," he said, his tongue suddenly too heavy in his mouth.

"It was after Ninon's party," Porthos said bluntly, and Aramis colored in remembrance. "It wasn't about you. Athos came home and started freaking out and saying shitty stuff about himself I wouldn't listen to without a fight--" His dark eyes flashed to Athos, who felt himself blush hotly too, and Porthos half-grinned and went on. "And we were both so keyed-up that I practically grabbed him and shook him, and he just looked up at me with those huge blue eyes and it hit me like a fucking mack truck." Athos shivered in remembrance, and Porthos' smile widened. "And then I kissed him."

"Oh," Aramis said, his voice tight. He let out a shaky little laugh. "I knew you hadn't been in the weight room."

"Well, no," Athos admitted. "And then we fucked," he added, just to force a blush onto Porthos' cheeks, as well. It was only fair, and Aramis deserved their honesty. "I'm sorry we lied about it. We weren't sure how you'd react--we weren't even sure how _we_ were going to react, out of the moment."

"It's okay," Aramis said, a slightly odd tone in his voice, and when Athos looked away from Porthos to look back up at him, there were two high spots of color in Aramis' cheeks, in a way that Athos hadn't seen him blush before.

Aramis, Athos realized suddenly, liked the idea of the two of them together. 

All his clothes felt too tight, suddenly.

"Is that...all right?" he asked slowly. He needed to hear the words. When Aramis looked up at him, it was through his eyelashes, and Athos swallowed. 

"Of course it is," Aramis said. He looked down at Porthos, the twin flushes of color deepening in his cheeks. "I--I mean, I don't know if I made it clear enough, but it is _both_ of you that I'm very much drowning in love for. I thought it'd have to be some awful negotiations to work out the--the angle, I suppose, I was thinking of, but--" He swallowed hard, his throat clicking.

"But it's a triangle," Porthos said, his own eyes hot and heavy on Aramis'. "Trust me, Aramis, Athos and I--" He broke off, his eyes flickering up to Athos', and Athos nodded, giving him permission. 

Porthos smiled at him. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, I'm crazy in love with him, too."

Athos' whole body flooded with heat, and any and all ability to form words utterly deserted him. As he stared wordlessly at Porthos, Aramis' hand landed on his and squeezed. "Is he all right?" he asked Porthos, his nervous voice half-laughing. 

"Yeah, I forget I can't really spring that shit on him," Porthos said, smiling up at him. "You know Athos and feelings."

"In that I cannot articulate them and am terrified of them?" Athos said, finding his voice at last, and Aramis laughed softly. 

"Is he always like this?" he asked Porthos, the smile in his voice clear.

"Sometimes he's even worse," Porthos said, ignoring the way Athos narrowed his eyes at him. "He's gonna try to apologize to you in advance for being terrible when in reality he's perfect. Just expect it."

 _"Porthos,"_ Athos said, and Porthos laughed, beaming up at him.

"Is he right?" Aramis asked, and when Athos looked back at him, he was grinning at Athos with those bright, laughing eyes that he so loved, that he hadn't seen in so long. "Athos, if we're just going to keep apologizing to each other for days on end, can we just get it out of the way with a blanket one right now?"

"Of course," Athos said, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. 

"And then there's one other thing, too," Aramis added, sliding a little closer.

Athos arched an eyebrow, even as warm feeling bubbled up in his chest at laughing with Aramis again, teasing each other, being _themselves._ "And that would be?"

"Well," Aramis said, looking up at him with glowing dark eyes, "you haven't kissed me yet."

Athos' brain flickered and shut off. 

When it came back on, Aramis was still gazing hopefully at him, and Porthos' hand was moving restlessly back and forth on Athos' knee. Athos couldn't breathe for want, suddenly--kiss Aramis? Really? He was allowed to do that now? After everything, after tonight--Aramis still wanted Athos to kiss him?

"You may have to make the first move," Porthos told Aramis, and Athos could hear the smile in his voice. "He's shitty at it."

Aramis smiled, almost _shyly,_ and Athos could literally feel the neurons short-circuiting with want in the back of his skull. "Is he?"

"Yes," Athos said, too far gone to care about admitting it. "Just come here, Aramis."

Aramis' dark eyes went _black,_ and Athos couldn't quite remember when the air had grown so thick and charged with sex that he could barely breathe. So this was the famous fuck-me stare. He'd never been on the receiving end of it before.

Holy _shit._

"Gladly," Aramis nearly purred.

And then Aramis was moving in, and time seemed to slow--Athos could see the tears still glistening in Aramis' eyelashes, but his eyes were dry now and his lips were soft and damp still from the way Porthos had ravaged his mouth and then he was too close and Athos closed his eyes because _this wasn't real, how could this be real, how could Aramis be about to kiss him--_

Athos shook like he'd been _electrocuted_ when Aramis' lips touched his. He moaned unrestrained, pushing into Aramis' touch and capturing his lips with his own, and _holy fuck_ Aramis opened for him like Athos had a key in his hands, his mouth falling open and his tongue sliding against Athos' and _shit, holy shit,_ all the emotion they'd channeled into screaming at each other before was pouring out of where their lips touched now, cascading down over their skin and setting everything on fire in its wake--

Athos let out the most absolutely undignified sound he'd ever made and sank his teeth into Aramis' bottom lip. 

Aramis' rough groan vibrated against Athos' mouth, and Athos was fucking dizzy, his head was spinning because he was high on endorphins and the adrenaline comedown and everything going _right,_ for once in his fucking life something had gone fucking _right_ and _Aramis was here, Aramis loved them--_

Whatever he'd done to deserve this, to deserve Aramis kissing him under Porthos' approving gaze, Aramis kissing him like he wanted to learn every sound Athos could ever make, making utterly fucking obscene sounds of pleasure and delight--whatever he'd done to deserve this, Athos was going to do his best to make sure he didn't fuck it up for as long as he lived.

Aramis' hand was in his hair, the other fisted into Athos' shirt to hold him close, and that was stupid, wasn't it, because Athos wasn't _going_ anywhere, why would he ever leave this bed and these men? Aramis didn't need to hold onto him like he was going to run away--

"Holy fuck, you need to stop," Porthos said in a rush, and Athos and Aramis broke dizzily apart to stare down at him. Porthos was staring up at them with a blazing look of undisguised lust and adoration, and _oh, God,_ this was pure fucking sex between the three of them, Athos had never known two people he loved more and wanted to _lick_ more in his entire life.

"We should film this," Porthos said, his rough voice scratching over Athos' skin like sandpaper. "You two should see yourselves."

"Please, I'm enough of a narcissist," Aramis gasped. "Porthos, why the fuck are you still on the floor?"

"I have no idea," Porthos said breathlessly, and scrambled up onto the bed on Aramis' other side. Aramis arched back with an impossibly needy sound, folding his legs under himself and pushing up onto his knees, and Porthos took Aramis' face in his hands and kissed him again.

Athos felt like he'd been hit over the head. So this was what Porthos had meant. It was intoxicating, watching them together. Porthos cradled Aramis' head in his strong fingers, the way he'd kissed Athos the first time, that had made him feel so safe and secure and _overwhelmed,_ and Athos could hear Aramis making those happy, needy sounds again.

When they broke apart at last, Aramis looked blissed-out and punch-drunk, and Porthos' chest was heaving, his eyes wide and wanting and darker than Athos had ever seen them as he gazed down at Aramis. 

"Do you have any idea, Aramis," Porthos said, his voice barely above a breath, "how long we've both wanted to do that?"

Aramis shook his head dazedly, and he sat back heavily on the bed, looking between the two of them. "I still can't believe this is happening," he said, his voice hoarse. "I thought you were going to throw me out and never want to see me again."

"Never," Porthos murmured, and he ducked in to brush another deep, searing kiss over Aramis' lips. 

Aramis whimpered softly, and that tiny helpless sound made Athos' heart flutter madly against his ribs. "Never," he agreed, sliding closer to them, and Aramis broke his and Porthos' kiss to stare needily up at Athos.

"Even if we fight," Porthos said, stroking Aramis' cheek, and Aramis' eyes fell shut as he leaned into the touch. "Probably especially when we fight, actually," he added, his lips twisting in a helpless smile, and Aramis shivered out a little laugh, pressing up against Porthos' side. "We're never gonna be done with you, Aramis."

Aramis' eyes blinked open, and his gaze was cloudy with doubt. "I'm--I'm impossible to live with," he said softly, his voice vulnerable. "I've been told so--many times. I'm not--it isn't going to be _easy,_ Porthos."

"It was never going to be easy," Athos said, his arm sliding around Aramis' waist. He very desperately needed to be touching him right now. Porthos gave him an encouraging nod, and Athos swallowed, looking back to Aramis. Aramis looked uncertain, and Athos smoothed his hand over Aramis' lower back, as calmingly as he could. "It never has been. You go a mile a minute, I'm a basket case, and Porthos is too good for both of us."

Aramis laughed out loud, and Porthos growled at Athos from the pit of his chest. "If at any point we lay down relationship ground rules," he said threateningly, "I'm gonna make one of mine _Athos isn't allowed to talk shit about himself."_

Athos made a face at him. "Then what would I ever say?" 

Aramis gave a watery laugh and snuggled down between them. "That sounds like a good idea, though," he said, reaching up to swipe at his eyes again. "Relationship ground rules."

Athos nodded, even as the word _relationship_ sent a funny curl of heat and nerves spiraling through the pit of his stomach. 

"What?" Porthos asked, clearly noticing, and Aramis glanced up at him in concern.

Athos swallowed. "I was only..." He took a deep breath. "Relationship, then?"

It was absurd, how quickly they'd gone from screaming and tears to bedroom eyes and kissing and talking about a _relationship._ But even as Athos' heart slammed almost painfully against his ribs, so full it could beat out of his chest, he felt curiously settled. This was right. This was where they'd been leading, for so long that it was inevitable, really. They would either fracture apart, or they'd be together.

He was so, so glad it was the second one and not the first.

Porthos blinked at him, then looked at Aramis. Aramis gazed steadily back, his dark eyes full and intent when they slid to Athos, and for a long few moments, the three of them just looked at each other, taking in faces and eyes and being close again, for the first time in too long.

"Yeah," Aramis said finally, his voice rough. "I want that."

Porthos nodded, sliding closer so his arm could come around Aramis' shoulders to land on Athos' back. "Me, too."

Athos' throat was too tight to speak, so all he could do was nod, nod over and over again until the two of them touched him, all smiles, in reassurance.

"I vote ground rules in the morning," Porthos said, his voice just as rough as Aramis' had been. "We're nowhere near done with this discussion--we're never _gonna_ be done with this discussion, but I really just need to be close to you two right now."

"I need to be a lot more than _close_ to you right now," Aramis said, and Porthos and Athos looked sharply at him. Aramis was flushed again, his cheeks glowing and his eyes bright, and Athos felt a shiver cascade down his back. 

"Aramis?" Porthos sounded both afraid and hopeful again.

"I spent so fucking long not even letting myself _think_ that this could be something I could have," Aramis said, in a voice that was far too unsteady for the casual way he was attempting to use it. "I realize this may be considered rushing things, but I have spent too damn long telling myself not to want it that now I know I _can,_ I think I may actually cry if we don't all get naked and wriggly right about now."

It took Athos more than a few seconds to work through the haze of absolute lust that descended on him at those words. Luckily, Porthos recovered first.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ," Porthos said, and dragged Aramis into a messy, biting kiss. Aramis whined against Porthos' lips and teeth, arching into him with another needy, pleading sound, and Athos wrapped his arms around the both of them and tried to breathe. He wanted this. Oh, God, he wanted them both so badly.

Aramis broke away from Porthos with a dizzy sound, turning blindly toward Athos, and Athos caught his face and pulled him close for a kiss of his own. Aramis' low, shuddering groan was musical. "Please," he gasped against Athos' lips. "Please, Athos, _please._ I dreamed about it last night."

Athos was physically incapable of letting go of him after that. His arms locked around Aramis' chest and he held on for dear life, devouring Aramis' mouth and just _kissing_ him because he couldn't do anything else. Last night. He'd dreamed about it, when Athos had been in bed with him. 

"You two are gonna give me a fucking heart attack," Porthos said, his voice lower than Athos had ever heard it, and Athos could feel him press close, pressing Aramis even further into Athos. Aramis groaned, half-climbing into Athos' lap, and Athos' hands had fisted in his hair before he'd even realized he was doing it. "Fucking _look at you,"_ Porthos growled, and Athos had no idea how Aramis could be making two sounds at once, a groan and a low keen--

And then he realized the keening sound was his own voice. 

Athos gasped, and Aramis made a soft sound and pressed a kiss to his cheek when he broke away to gaze at Porthos with glazed eyes--he needed him so _fucking_ desperately his skin was shivering with it. He had barely touched Porthos since they'd moved onto the bed. He _needed_ him.

"Oh," Aramis exhaled, staring back and forth between them. "Oh, I want to see you two together."

Athos swayed on the bed, his eyes locked on Porthos' face. They didn't have to hide it anymore. Aramis knew. Aramis _liked_ it, that they were together. They didn't have to _hide,_ they could--they could hold hands, they could kiss, they could--could--

"If I missed the first kisses," Aramis said, sliding back on the bed so they had an uninterrupted view of each other, his hands lingering on Athos' back and Porthos' thigh, "I want to see every single one from now on."

Athos deserved a fucking medal for holding out the half a second that he did. And then he broke, and scrambled across the sheets to literally fling himself into Porthos' arms.

Porthos caught him, caught him and _held,_ and then he was holding Athos' head steady so he could kiss him deeper then he ever had before, and Athos made another fucking undignified, disgusting sound of need and rocked up into him.

 _"Oh,"_ Aramis said again, like the sound had been punched from him, and Athos temporarily lost control of his sanity. Indulging some long-buried exhibitionist streak, he pushed at Porthos' shoulders until he realized what Athos was doing and lay back, looking up at Athos with blown pupils and a reverent grin. Athos felt a feral grin slide across his own face as he crawled into Porthos' lap.

It was like their first time, he thought dazedly as Porthos dragged him down and kissed him harder, his knees on either side of Porthos' legs and Porthos' heat and solidity pressed all against his front. 

He broke away long enough to gasp, "This is how it was, Aramis--this, the first time, it was like this--"

And Porthos hauled him even closer with a rumbling groan, and Athos was plastered against him and arching into him and _shaking,_ he couldn't _help_ it, not when Porthos was kissing him like that and Aramis was _watching--_

"Oh, my God," Aramis breathed, his voice shaky, and Athos felt Aramis' fingertips land on the strip of skin where Porthos' hands had rucked up his t-shirt.

Athos gasped and his hips shuddered down onto Porthos', Aramis' voice and his touch sending a stab of desire through him stronger than he'd ever felt, and Porthos swore and bucked up against him.

It was so good, it was _too_ good, and holy _shit_ he was going to come just from all the kissing and touching--

Athos reared back, gasping, and he was shaking all over, shivers chasing themselves over his skin and knife-sharp pleasure twisting in his stomach. "Holy fuck," he choked, his palms flat on Porthos' shoulders.

Porthos' hands smoothed over Athos' thighs, his hazy gaze sharpening with concern. "Okay?"

Athos swallowed and nodded, and Aramis slid a little closer, his arm wrapping around Athos' waist. Athos tilted his head towards him, resting his temple against Aramis' forehead. He was having a hard time catching his breath.

Aramis kissed his jaw, his eyelashes tickling Athos' cheek, and Athos shivered. "You okay?" he murmured, turning into Aramis a little more. 

"I'm _so_ okay," Aramis breathed, and leaned in for a kiss. Athos gave it gladly, reveling in the freedom to do so, and Porthos shifted until he could sit up, too. Aramis and Athos both broke apart to turn to him, and Athos kissed his cheek as Aramis gently captured his lips.

They sat like that for what felt like hours, trading kisses and gentle touches, pressing lips to necks and shoulders and whatever was in reach--and once he'd backed off from the edge, Athos had never felt so grounded. His heart slowed to something approaching normal for the first time all night, and any thoughts of panic were far, far away. He never would have expected he could feel so calm in the middle of what was almost probably definitely going to be sex at some point. He could just sit here, learning what made Porthos sigh and Aramis catch his breath, what they could do to _him_ that would make him grit his teeth and reach for them. And there was no sense of pressure, no expectations. He'd never felt safer.

They had him. They weren't going to let him fall.

Aramis and Porthos were kissing lazily, each smiling too much for their lips to be touching all the way, and Athos was nuzzling gently at the spot behind Aramis' ear. Aramis arched into him with a soft murmur, and Athos let his kisses trail down Aramis' neck.

His lips traced over the soft space just above Aramis' collarbone, and Aramis shifted slightly and made a quiet sound against Porthos' lips. Intrigued, Athos did it again, a little harder this time, and Aramis' sound was a little louder. His hand slid up to rest in Athos' hair, holding him there, and Athos smiled against Aramis' skin.

"Like that?" Porthos murmured, and Aramis drew a tight breath and nodded. Athos could feel his tension, shimmering down his frame as Athos' lips worked against his collarbone.

So Athos did what anyone in his position would have done--he wrapped an arm around Aramis' neck to steady himself and started to suck a mark into his skin for all he was worth.

Aramis rewarded him with a full-body shudder and a high moan against Porthos' mouth--he was panting, gasping for Porthos' air, his whole body suddenly alive with tension. Athos scraped his teeth over Aramis' collarbone, coaxing another broken groan from him, and he soothed the sting with his lips, with a soft flick of his tongue.

"Oh, fuck," Aramis gasped, his fingers flexing against Athos' scalp. "Keep doing that."

Athos and Porthos shared a wild-eyed look, then moved. Porthos tugged Aramis gently back onto the bed, guiding him to lay down, and Aramis fell back almost instantly, reaching up to them. Porthos caught Aramis' questing hand and lay down beside him, pressing all up against his side, and Athos half-straddled his lap and went back to his task with a ferocity he'd never felt before. Porthos recaptured Aramis' lips in a deep kiss, and he held him steady as Aramis started to shake under Athos' attention.

Aramis couldn't catch his breath--he sucked in gasps of air as he clung to Porthos, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and the hand he'd twisted into Athos' hair was shaking. For a moment, Athos worried it was too much--was he hurting him?--but when he tried to pull back, Aramis made a desperate sound and pushed his head back down. Athos didn't try to stop again after that--he pressed an apologetic kiss to the tender spot, then closed his lips over it and _sucked,_ licking and nibbling and tasting salty sweat and soap and _Aramis,_ he still could hardly believe this was _Aramis._

Aramis twisted and jerked underneath him, letting out a sound Athos had never heard from him before--not on Halloween, not ever--breathless and low in his chest, panting out and higher at the end, rhythmic, and oh, fuck, Athos couldn't help himself. He bit down, hard, and Aramis arched off the bed with a strangled groan.

"Oh, _fuck,"_ he choked, and grabbed onto Athos with both hands. "S-stop, _stop,_ I'm gonna come--"

Athos lifted his head immediately, his hands moving to rub soothingly at Aramis' shoulders, and Aramis sank back into the sheets with a whimper. "That seems like a terrible reason to stop, though," Athos said breathlessly, and he pressed a kiss to the corner of Aramis' jaw.

Aramis shuddered again, and he pushed a hand through Athos' hair. "I'm not--" His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "I'm not coming in my pants like a fucking teenager," he gasped, "get me naked first."

Athos let his head fall onto Aramis' shoulder and let out a heartfelt groan of desire. How the fuck was he going to handle Aramis saying things like that, day after day?

"Fuck, Aramis, you can't just _say_ shit like that," Porthos said, proving once and for all he was genuinely fucking psychic. He took Aramis' head in his hands and dragged him into another fierce kiss, and Athos shivered at how deep it looked.

"Is that a yes?" Aramis moaned against Porthos' lips.

"Fuck yes," Porthos said, and Athos sat up, climbing off Aramis so Porthos could help him upright. Aramis was still trembling all over, but his hands were steady enough as he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and tugged it up, off, over his head.

Fuck, he was gorgeous. Athos had always known, but it was like his first time with Porthos--it wasn't the first time he'd seen Aramis shirtless, but it was the first time Aramis was there wanting Athos to _touch._ Aramis' torso shone with sweat, and the deep red smudge on his collarbone--that Athos had put there, for once it was _Athos_ marking his body--practically seemed to glow against the deeper tan of his skin. 

He was everything, and he looked at the two of them with dark, hesitant eyes, like he was waiting on their approval.

What happened next was not precisely anyone's fault. Athos and Porthos moved in unison for Aramis, blindly, both focused wholly on him, and Aramis surged forward in needy synchronicity.

It was a small bed--all three of them could barely fit just sitting still, let alone when they were all trying to put their knees and legs and bodies in the exact same place. 

They would never be quite sure how it happened, but in the space of seconds, too many limbs had collided, too many interrupted motions overbalanced. In one gloriously uncoordinated and desperately unsexy moment, Athos found himself crushed facedown against Porthos' chest by Aramis landing hard on his back, with Porthos himself flat on the bed, and the two of them sprawled on top of him.

For a startled second, no one moved.

Then Athos started to laugh. 

He felt them both jolt in surprise against him, but he couldn't help it. He was just _laughing,_ he had no idea why. He hadn't laughed in what had to be years, he realized suddenly--he'd had no reason to, for so long, he'd been so afraid to show that much emotion. 

He'd forgotten how _good_ it felt. He just pressed his face into Porthos' shoulder, gasping for air and _laughing,_ and after a moment, Aramis let out a delighted laugh and started to shake with giggles, too. Beneath them, Porthos dropped his head back to the mattress, and Athos could feel his own laughter vibrating through both of their chests.

"That...was bad," Athos wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face into Porthos' shoulder.

"Absolutely terrible," Aramis agreed, sending Athos' whole body shaking with the force of his laughter. "The unsexiest thing I have ever done."

Porthos just shook his head, eyes closed, and he couldn't stop laughing, either.

Aramis wrapped his arms around Athos and pulled him close, hugging Athos' back to his chest and curling his whole body around Athos as he _shook_ with laughter. "Athos, you have the most wonderful laugh," he murmured, pressing smiling kisses all down the top of Athos' spine. "I can't believe I've never heard it before--I'm totally prepared to be a klutzy ass every day of my life if it means I can make you laugh like this again."

Athos caught his breath, gasping, and wrapped his arm over Aramis. "Don't count on it, but enjoy it while it lasts," he panted, still trembling through the occasional giggle.

"This is the fucking worst," Porthos chuckled, looking up at the two of them. "Let's never tell anyone that our first time in bed, we all just fell right the fuck over?"

"On the contrary," Aramis said archly, "I'm telling absolutely _everyone._ Little queerlings, gather around and let Uncle Aramis tell you the story of his first polyamorous threesome--"

Porthos' hand closed on Athos' pillow and he swung it up into Aramis' head without a word. Aramis batted him off, laughing out loud again, and Athos tilted his head back against Aramis' shoulder, still grinning like a fool. Porthos reached up and hooked his hand around Aramis' neck, dragging him down to shut him up with a kiss, and Athos let them pin him between themselves again, enjoying every second of it. 

"Shall we try again?" Aramis murmured against Porthos' lips, still grinning, and Porthos nodded. Athos nodded, too, knowing they'd both feel his motion, and Aramis grinned, pushing himself up.

"No," Porthos pouted as Aramis crawled off the bed, and he reached for him as he and Athos sat up. "No, get back here."

Aramis hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and he gave them a teasing little tug down. "But I thought you wanted these off?" he asked innocently.

Athos draped himself over Porthos' back and reached up to cover Porthos' mouth with his hand. "He does," he said, resting his chin on Porthos' shoulder so he could see properly. "He was wrong. Do go on."

Aramis flashed Porthos an inquiring look, his face the picture of arch civility, and Athos courteously moved his hand.

Porthos' voice was lower and rougher than it had been all night. "Yeah, totally wrong, sorry, go ahead."

Aramis beamed at the two of them and reached for the button on his jeans.

"Aramis," Athos said suddenly, something clicking into place as he noticed the jeans Aramis was wearing. They were a darker wash than the ones Athos remembered seeing him in at the tournament, and he wasn't wearing a belt--wasn't even wearing shoes, Athos realized. And then he remembered the taste of soap on Aramis' skin, and his hair had been more damp than just sweat could really do--

"Did you shower before coming here?" Athos asked, staring up at him. Porthos tensed underneath him, like he'd only just put it together himself.

Aramis bit his lip, looking down. "Yes," he admitted softly. "I didn't want to come to you with--I mean, it wouldn't have felt right to...if I was asking your forgiveness, to. To come all messed up from someone else." He half-grimaced, looking into the middle distance between them. "That's sort of fucked-up, isn't it."

"We changed the sheets," Athos pointed out, his voice rough.

One corner of Aramis' mouth tugged up, and he looked back at them. "Yeah," he conceded. His smile widened slightly, his dark eyes hopeful. "I guess we both just wanted a fresh start."

A fresh start. 

Athos nodded, his throat too tight to speak again, and Porthos shifted underneath him. Aramis' eyes flicked to him, and Porthos swallowed. "Get your pants off," he said, his voice low and full of promises, "and get back on this bed."

Aramis' smile widened back to a full-blow grin, and he slipped the button on his jeans. Achingly slowly, he tugged the zipper down, revealing inch by inch a widening sliver of dark shorts underneath.

Porthos growled, pushing back slightly against Athos' weight. "Athos, he's a tease."

"I can see that," Athos said, hooking his arm around Porthos' chest. "What would you like me to do about it?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "It is called a strip _tease,_ y'know," he said, working his jeans achingly slowly down his hips.

Porthos rocked forward before Athos' weight made him pause. Settling back, Porthos spread his legs slightly, adjusting his position, and from his own angle, with his chin on Porthos' shoulder, Athos could see just how clearly Aramis' little _teasing_ was affecting Porthos.

Aramis noticed, too, clearly, from the way his tongue swiped out over his bottom lip and his eyes went hot as he looked up to meet Porthos' gaze. "For me?" he asked, a little breathlessly.

Porthos let out a heavy breath, and Athos settled more firmly onto his shoulders, glad that Porthos' body hid the evidence of his own arousal. He wasn't sure he could take being as exposed as Porthos was letting himself be.

"Yeah," Porthos said, and one of his hands was sliding back and forth on the top of his thigh, even as the other reached up for Athos' to cover his hand. "For two and a half fucking years, Aramis, for you."

Aramis swallowed, hard, his hands stilling on his jeans, the fabric pushed down just enough for them to see the black waistband of his underwear. 

"Two and a half years," Porthos went on, his voice very low and controlled, "of waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and hearing your voice. Of sleeping on the pillow you'd borrowed so I'd smell you in my dreams. Of being blind to absolutely everything else--" His hand tightened around Athos', and Athos squeezed it back as hard as he could. "For you."

For a long second, it seemed all Aramis could do was stare at them, his chest rising and falling and those dark eyes so open and overwhelmed. 

His gaze flicked to Athos, almost pleading, and Athos could read the question there-- _You, too?_

Athos swallowed. "I always imagined," he said slowly, barely recognizing his own voice, "that you'd know just what to do with me."

Porthos' hand closed almost painfully around his, and Aramis' eyes went deep and dark like Athos had never seen them.

Then a slow smile spread across his face, and Aramis hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. "I hate to make you wait any longer, then," he said, his voice steady again--secure in the knowledge that they wanted him--and pushed the rest of his clothes down his legs.

He was exquisitely graceful about stepping out of the mess of denim and cotton, in a way that absolutely no one should be, and then Athos wasn't thinking about that anymore because Aramis had straightened and _God._

Athos' eyes traced over every inch of skin he'd never seen bared all together before--he wanted to follow the path his eyes were taking with his lips, trace them over Aramis' waist and hips and calves before coming back up to sink his teeth into the meat of his thighs, slim and strong and he could envision them _perfectly_ locking around Porthos' waist--oh, _fuck,_ he wanted to see that. He wanted to see all of the things they could do together.

"Better than your best wet dream?" Aramis asked, his voice low with whatever he saw on their faces, and he slid a hand absently over his own hip. 

The motion drew Athos' attention to the one place he'd really been trying not to stare at, and he tried not to--but it was too late; his gaze was riveted on Aramis' cock, and he wanted it. His chest was tight and his cheeks were hot and he _wanted_ it, he wanted to do absolutely unspeakably filthy things to Aramis and his utterly gorgeous cock. Athos couldn't remember ever _feeling_ this way before, _wanting_ it so fucking viscerally--except maybe with Porthos, Porthos' hands and that split-second memory he had of the scorching slide of Porthos' cock against his own--all right, fine, he wanted that too. He wanted both of them in ways he'd never considered allowing himself to want again.

He'd craved sex with Anne like drugs--but their whole time together had been hazy and foggy, dulled with a thousand chemicals and the clouds of her perfume, and even now the memories only came back in single sharp images, painful in their clarity among the shadows of the rest. He remembered the jab of her nails in his abdomen and the burn as she dragged them down--but not the rest of the night it happened. 

He remembered dragging her towards him on the edge of the bed as he knelt at the footboard, throwing her legs over his shoulders as the smell of her overwhelmed him--but he didn't remember the sex act itself, couldn't remember how she tasted. He couldn't remember if he was good at it, if he'd made her come like that. All he remembered was pulling her towards him, and the overwhelming emotion of that one moment--the sheer fucking _terror,_ the need to please her so she'd _stay,_ so she wouldn't leave him to deal with his demons alone.

Even now, sometimes he wondered if he'd craved Anne _or_ the drugs, and maybe not both. If maybe Anne had known, and kept him on one leash so she could keep the other curled tightly around her fist.

He'd been so fucking young then, so fucking stupid with fucking idiotic ideas about what true love was. His time with Anne had been fueled by the absolutely fucking _teenage_ romantic ideal of _high fucking tragedy._ He and Anne had been luminous and cruel and self-destructive, and they were going to live forever.

But now he knew, better than he ever did, that no one lived forever.

And he knew that the pulse of Porthos' heart under his hands, the achingly tender apology in Aramis' eyes, the long hard conversations that they'd had--would keep having--as they tried to build what they had into something stronger--

Maybe it was still idiotic, maybe it was still idealistic, that three people, as different as the three of them were, could do it.

But Athos was fairly sure that _that_ was true fucking love.

So it was all right, he thought dizzily, as he pressed himself all against Porthos' back and forced down the moan that shivered its way up his throat, that he craved this. They wouldn't use it against him. 

He could want them, want them _desperately,_ and it wasn't because he needed to make them stay, to convince them not to go. He could want them because they wanted him back.

And now, _God,_ did he want. He couldn't stop staring at Aramis' fucking _cock,_ dusky brown and mostly-hard, it looked like, from what they'd done before, from being under their scrutiny now. Aramis palmed the jut of his own hipbone again, pushing forward slightly into his own touch, and when he sighed Athos' eyes rocketed back up to his face.

Aramis' eyes were liquid and dark, and Athos shuddered out a sigh of his own.

Porthos swallowed, and Athos felt him take a deep breath. "Get back in this bed," he said in that low, intent voice, "right fucking now."

Aramis didn't hesitate at all. It was his turn to do what Athos had done and climb breathlessly into Porthos' lap, to straddle Porthos' legs and be dragged down into a deep and absolutely overwhelming kiss. Athos stared, barely able to breathe, because they were so fucking _close_ to him and he could see everything--the white flash of Porthos' teeth as they dug into Aramis' bottom lip, the sweat beading on Aramis' temples and along his collarbones as he writhed in Porthos' hold. 

Athos sucked in a gasp, floored by how gorgeous they were like this, and Aramis opened his eyes to stare hazily over Porthos' shoulder at him. He smiled with heavy-lidded eyes and leaned forward to kiss Athos, too.

Athos wasn't _so_ intoxicated by the kiss that he failed to noticed Porthos let out a shuddering groan between them, and when he and Aramis broke apart, there was a wolfish curl to Aramis' lips. 

He quirked a brow at Athos, a silent suggestion Athos could read in a heartbeat, and he returned Aramis' almost-feral smile and nodded.

Torturously slowly, Aramis ground his hips down against Porthos' still-clothed lap, and Athos, curled all along his back, did the same, grinding slowly against his ass. Porthos jerked, a moan slipping from his lips, and Aramis' smile turned almost lazy as he did it again, and Athos followed suit. 

"Oh, _fuck,_ you two," Porthos gasped, and one of his hands came up and back to fist in Athos' hair, grounding himself. Athos' eyes fluttered shut at the touch--and snapped open again almost instantly at Aramis' wanting sigh. Porthos' other hand had landed on Aramis' hip, and his fingertips were digging into the soft flesh just where the swell of his ass started.

Aramis let out a soft whimper and swayed into him again, his hips starting a steady, circling rhythm, and Athos mirrored it against Porthos' backside, scattering kisses over the top of his back, the base of his neck. Porthos was shaking, shivering, holding onto the two of them with trembling hands--clinging to them as hard as he was clinging to his self-control.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Porthos whispered, sounding like he was in agony, and Athos could feel the stuttering jerks of his hips forward and back, like he wasn't sure who he wanted to press into more. "Fuck, Aramis--Athos--you--you both, you're so fucking-- _oh,_ oh my _fucking_ God--"

This felt so good, Athos thought hazily--it felt _right,_ to be staring into Aramis' eyes while they held Porthos between them and made him lose control. Porthos deserved it. Porthos worked so hard, constantly, to keep the two of them afloat, and Athos couldn't remember _thanking_ him--not until tonight. They both had taken him for granted, they really had, he thought guiltily, the slight sickness at the thought curling in his chest alongside the overwhelming need--and Athos wanted to worship every inch of him until Porthos _knew_ how much they needed him, how much they loved him.

Porthos deserved this, deserved to have the both of them, if he wanted them. And from the way he was holding on to Athos' head and Aramis' waist, hissing their names between his teeth--he very much did.

"Take this off," Aramis growled against Porthos' lips, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "No, don't let go of us, but Athos, can you--"

"Yeah," Athos breathed, scrambling for the hem of Porthos' shirt. "Yeah, yes, Porthos, just--"

"Okay, okay, _shit,"_ Porthos hissed, and Athos nearly ripped Porthos' t-shirt in his haste to get it off--Porthos had to let go of Aramis and untangle his fingers from Athos' hair for a second, and Aramis' whine of loss nearly drove Athos over the edge--but then it was gone, it was on the floor, and Aramis' gasp was a punch to the stomach.

"I never let myself love this before," Aramis breathed, bending his head to mouth at Porthos' neck and collarbones as his hands roamed _everywhere_ over Porthos' chest, his waist, his abs. "You are so fucking perfect, you're fucking _gorgeous,_ and I always told myself not to look--"

Porthos bit back a strangled groan, pushing needily forward into Aramis' touch--then arching back with a cry as Athos bent his head and kissed his way down Porthos' back. He trailed a line of sloppy, openmouthed kisses over the knobs of Porthos' spine, licking every bump and valley, and Porthos' hand scrabbled for his neck, his shoulder, any part of him he could touch. "Athos," he gasped, his hand finally landing on Athos' thigh and _squeezing,_ "shit, Athos, you--oh, fuck, _Aramis_ \--!"

Athos glanced up and saw Aramis had slid forward slightly, and he wasn't circling anymore, he was just rocking back and forth, moaning softly as he ground against the obvious bulge in Porthos' jeans. Aramis was panting, his eyes half-shut and his mouth slack, and Porthos was in no better state, clutching at them both and holding Aramis tight against him--

"I'm gonna come if you keep doing that," Porthos choked, and Aramis and Athos both pressed against him, Athos' own hips faltering in sudden, desperate need.

Aramis shivered in Porthos' lap, his hands slipping through Porthos' dark curls. "Do you want us to keep going?" he asked breathlessly, his lips tracing across Porthos' brow and nose and cheekbone and temple. "Do you want us to make you come like this? Or do you want--" He swallowed, hard, and his hips stuttered against Porthos' again. "Do you want something else?"

It was painfully obvious he'd just had an incredibly distracting thought, and Athos wanted to know anything that had made Aramis need to buck against Porthos like that. He rested his chin on Porthos' shoulder again, panting roughly, and he stage-whispered in Porthos' ear, "I think he hopes you want something else, Porthos."

Aramis' lips curled in an utterly adoring smile, wicked as it was, and Porthos growled low in his chest, reaching up with both hands to drag Aramis down for another kiss. Athos watched, feeling curiously powerful, that he'd _known,_ that Aramis had smiled at him like that for knowing, and when Porthos broke away and tilted his head towards Athos', rubbing his temple against Athos' forehead, another warm surge of emotion coursed through Athos' chest.

"Think you may be right, Athos," Porthos said, curling his arms around Aramis' waist. "You wanna share with the class, Aramis?"

Aramis' eyelashes fluttered, and he ducked his head, looking unaccountably shy again--considering he'd been proudly buck-naked in front of them mere moments ago, Athos wondered what vulnerable thought he'd had to make him look like that. 

Aramis looked up at them through his eyelashes, his chin still low, and the little half-smile he gave Porthos was so utterly winsome that Athos nearly came right there. "Would you get naked?" he asked, absolutely no teasing in his voice. "I want to see you."

Athos felt Porthos' shoulders slump slightly, his whole body sinking just a little bit into Aramis, and Porthos' smile was blinding as he beamed up at Aramis in his lap. "Yeah," he breathed, and tugged Aramis closer for another kiss. "Yeah, kneel up a bit--"

Athos helped again, because Porthos seemed very reluctant to move his hands from Aramis' waist--and really, how could Athos blame him? So he was the one to undo Porthos' belt, enjoying the way the motion put his arms all the way around Porthos, and Porthos turned to catch him in a kiss as Athos purposefully trailed his hands down Porthos' abdomen.

"We're not neglecting you, are we, babe?" he murmured against Athos' lips, and Athos shook his head. Even this was barely as much as he could take, every touch driving him closer to an edge that terrified him with its height, and he was _relieved_ that they could focus on Porthos for a little while.

"I want to give this to you," he said, tracing his nose along Porthos'. "I want you to know, Porthos, how much we want to give you." 

Porthos blinked at him, taken aback--and then slowly, a look of such overwhelming _love_ spread across his face. Athos smiled back, and the look in Porthos' eyes settled deep in his chest, warming him through and through. 

He glanced up to find Aramis beaming at them, looking almost amazed at what he was seeing, and Athos stretched up to him, too. Aramis made a soft sound and leaned in for his own kiss, and Athos traced his lips gently over Aramis', letting it linger. It wasn't for show, he definitely _wanted_ to--fuck, he would never _stop_ kissing Aramis, if he could--but the pleased sigh Porthos let out was a nice bonus.

"You were in the middle of something," Aramis reminded him when they broke apart, his smile widening, and Athos smiled despite himself.

"Yes, I was," he agreed, innuendo creeping into his voice despite his best intentions, and the shiver he felt run down Porthos' back was incredibly gratifying.

He slid his hands back down Porthos' abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles he could feel in his wake, and slipped the button loose on his jeans, slid his zipper down--and oh, fuck, he could feel Porthos hard under his hands, and Porthos' hips jerked up into his touch, as light as it was.

The gentleness of their little interlude had faded, and blazing need lit up the nerve endings under Athos' skin--his hands fumbled a little as he pushed at Porthos' jeans and shorts, working them down his hips. Porthos had to lean back into Athos so he could lift up his hips, and Aramis knelt up, bracing himself on Porthos' shoulders, and they were all so _close,_ so focused. It made Athos' breath catch in his chest.

And then he'd gotten Porthos' jeans down his thighs, and Aramis reached between them and clawed them off down his legs--and stopped, his gaze zeroing in on Porthos' undeniable erection. All the breath seemed to leave his lungs in one quiet huff.

Athos couldn't blame him. It was the first time he'd gotten a chance to really _look_ at Porthos' body, too, and--well. Porthos was the best of all of them, in many regards. He was better built, his dark skin was agonizingly perfect, and his cock sent a thousand fantasies swirling in Athos' head, fantasies he'd never allowed himself to indulge because it seemed so fucking _improbable,_ but now--

Aramis' mouth had fallen open, his eyes heavy and dark, and Porthos swallowed, his hips twitching up like Aramis' gaze was a physical touch. "Yeah," he said, and Athos could practically _hear_ the corner of his mouth curving up. "I get that."

Aramis' eyes slid slowly up to Porthos' face, and Athos felt Porthos' breath freeze in his chest. He couldn't blame him. That scorching look of desire was enough to stop Athos in his tracks, too.

"I changed my mind," Aramis said, his voice hoarse. He still held himself over Porthos' lap, his thighs tense and trembling like he was continually stopping himself from sinking down into Porthos' heat. "I want something else."

Porthos' hands moved up and down on Aramis' thighs, and he leaned back into Athos, like he needed the support. Athos curved his arms around Porthos' chest and pressed his closed lips to the soft space just behind the angle of Porthos' jaw, his eyes never leaving Aramis' face. 

"What?" Porthos asked, his voice tight.

Aramis swallowed. "Let me suck your cock?"

Five words, and yet it took Athos as long to parse it as if it had been a speech. His brain just couldn't put that together--Aramis, asking Porthos, if he--if he could--

Porthos' whole body shook, and he reached up to Aramis with a desperate groan. They kissed fiercely, Porthos giving absolutely no quarter, and Aramis was shivering and panting when Porthos finally let him go again.

"I--" Porthos' voice was more wrecked than Athos had ever heard it. "Are you--are you sure, sure that you want to--"

"Oh, yes," Aramis growled, diving in to press another fierce, biting kiss to Porthos' lips. "Do you have any _fucking_ idea, Porthos, how much--how good you--how much I want to--" His voice failed him, and Aramis looked appealingly up at Athos. "Does he not _get it?"_

"Sometimes, no," Athos gasped, his own cock rock-hard against Porthos' back as he tried to wrap his thoughts around what the hell he was about to see. "Porthos, can you--just--further back on the bed, come here so Aramis can--"

"Oh, _fuck,"_ Porthos groaned, letting Athos and Aramis manhandle him back onto the bed--Athos had never seen him so uncoordinated and inelegant, and it wasn't until they'd settled him against the pillows, Athos on one side and Aramis crawling up over him, and Porthos reached up desperately for Aramis again, that Athos understood. 

Porthos had let himself imagine in a way Athos never had--he'd _wanted_ this, so much, for so long. Porthos had spent years with endlessly dashed hopes and slowly fading dreams, and _now--_

"I'm not gonna last, not at all, I'm sorry," he choked out against Aramis' lips as Aramis and Athos smoothed gentle hands over his chest, his arms, his sides. He looked like he was drowning, and Aramis kissed him again, deep and slow. 

"If you come too soon," Aramis murmured against his lips, "we'll just have to get you hard again, so don't worry."

"Fuck," Athos said, almost conversationally, and buried his face in Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos let out a manic, shaky laugh. "Athos, he's gonna fucking kill us."

"Yes, he is." Athos reached out and caught Porthos' chin, turning Porthos' face towards him and pulling him close for a kiss. "But I think you should be paying attention right now."

"Yes," Aramis murmured, and pressed a kiss to Porthos' breastbone.

Porthos twitched and shivered under him, his hands moving over Aramis' shoulders, neck, hair, like he didn't know where he wanted to be touching, as Aramis kissed a steady line down the center of his body.

"This might be sloppy on my part, too," Aramis half-laughed, as he slid his body back between Porthos' legs and brushed his lips over Porthos' navel. "I promise my head-giving technique is usually impeccable, but then, I'm not usually this out of my mind--"

Porthos' muscles jumped under Aramis' attention, and when Aramis dipped his head to lick a swirl around his navel, he swore out loud. "Aramis, I do not give a flying fuck about your _technique."_

Aramis lifted his head, arching an eyebrow. "Well, I do," he said haughtily, frowning up at him, and fuck, it was so _normal_ that Athos nearly laughed out loud again. Aramis and Porthos, bickering so casually back and forth--but never before quite like _this,_ naked and holding each other and as a prelude to one or both sucking each other's brains out through their cocks. Nothing had really changed, had it?

Porthos seemed to have the same thought, because he grinned at Aramis, one hand twisting gently through the curls behind Aramis' ear. "You would."

Aramis beamed up at him, batting his eyelashes. "I just don't want you to think my reputation's undeserved."

Athos rolled his eyes. "No one would think that, Aramis."

Aramis' smile shifted to him. "Well, good," he said, and ducked his head to lick the contours of Porthos' six-pack. 

Athos only briefly had the mental energy to think _good for him, I've always wanted to do that_ before he was bowled over by a physical blast of lust so strong it nearly made his stomach flip. "Fucking _God,"_ he groaned against Porthos' neck, his hips twitching involuntarily against Porthos' side, and Porthos growled in response, his arm around Athos' waist tightening hard enough to dance on the edge of pain. Athos tried very, very hard not to think about how much he enjoyed that, and focused every single one of his thoughts on Aramis.

It wasn't hard. Aramis was putting on a very good show. He slid down a little further, his dark eyes dancing up to meet theirs for a moment, before he pursed his lips and blew a stream of cool air along Porthos' already-slick cock. Porthos threw his head back, gritting his teeth, and Athos watched his cock jerk in front of Aramis' face with hungry eyes.

"Aramis," Porthos panted, his head dropping forward again so he could stare down at him, "Aramis, lover, you've _got_ to-- _please,_ I can't--"

Aramis sighed wantingly, reaching up with one hand and bracing himself on his other elbow, and almost reverently, he wrapped a hand around the base of Porthos' shaft. Porthos' whole body pushed up into the touch and a moan tore free from his chest, but he didn't look away from Aramis, from his face or his hands.

Aramis looked as enraptured as Porthos did, moving his hand slowly, so slowly, like he was cataloging every one of Porthos' gasps, twitches, and moans--how if he twisted his wrist, it'd coax a low groan from the base of Porthos' chest, while sliding his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the slickness that dripped there, would make his breath lock in his chest and his hips cant up. Athos watched hungrily, storing away each motion and each response--he wanted to try it himself; he wanted to try them on Aramis.

Aramis' eyes flickered to his and caught him staring, and Aramis could read him so well. Athos barely had time to blush too much, knowing all his intent showed on his face, before Aramis winked at him, his smile turning mischievous. "That's your studying face," he said, and Athos felt Porthos' breathless laugh beneath him. 

"I bet he'll be a quick learner," Porthos gasped, tightening the arm he had around Athos' waist.

"I gladly offer myself up for experimentation," Aramis purred, and Athos and Porthos shivered together. "Or--" Aramis' smile widened. "What was it I said, before Halloween, that made you slip up, Athos?"

Athos had no idea what he was talking about--then suddenly, he _remembered,_ and his whole body flushed. "Oh, fucking--I was still half asleep, Aramis, you can't--"

"'Surrender my body,'" Aramis said, his eyes sparkling. "No wonder you turned so red and Porthos' jaw hit the floor, you two filthy perverts, you'd been wanting that for years."

"Can you blame us?" Porthos growled, and Aramis shivered delightedly. He looked up at them through his eyelashes, his tongue swiping out along his bottom lip. Porthos let out another deeply-felt groan at the sight--Aramis was still touching him, mind-blowingly slowly--and Aramis watched him in awe.

"You're so responsive, my love," Aramis murmured, and Porthos arched back against Athos with a helpless sound. Aramis glanced up, his smile easing into something sweet, something affectionate--his eyes were hot but his face was so _gentle._ "Was that my hand, or the endearment?"

Porthos' eyes were shiny as he looked down, taking two deep breaths before stuttering out, "What do you _think?"_ Aramis' smile widened, and Porthos reached down to card a hand through Aramis' messy curls. He shook his head, gazing down at Aramis' face, and even though every muscle in his body was trembling, he managed to keep his voice relatively even. "What do you think's getting me more worked up--you just touching me or you _looking_ at me like that, calling me--" Porthos' voice broke in his throat, and Athos leaned in to kiss his cheek, nuzzling at his temple--holding him up.

Aramis' eyes were shining, too, and he hadn't stopped the slow motion of his hand. "I will tell you," he said, his voice low, "every _single_ day from now on. I _promise."_

Porthos smiled down at him, brushing his thumb over Aramis' cheekbone. "Aramis."

Aramis pushed into the touch and beamed at him, that bright and wide smile that they loved so very, very much.

Then in one smooth motion, he ducked his head and replaced his hand with his mouth.

Porthos' back bowed off the bed, his strangled shout musical to Athos' ears, and Athos held him down, held him close as he _shook_ under Aramis' attention. "Oh, _oh,"_ Porthos hissed, and his eyes fell shut, his face twisting in a painful-looking ecstasy--

And then just as quickly as he'd shut his eyes, he forced them back open, keeping his gaze on Aramis. And Athos understood instantly.

If it were him, he wouldn't want to miss a second, either. He'd be afraid, the minute he closed his eyes, that he'd open them again and it would have all been a dream.

He pressed even closer to Porthos, and growled, "I know, he's _gorgeous,"_ against Porthos' throat. "And he's _here,_ he's _ours,"_ he added, pushing a hand of his own down into Aramis' hair, and he shuddered when both Porthos and Aramis groaned.

Aramis' eyelashes fluttered as Athos' fingertips stroked over his scalp, and when he moaned again Porthos shuddered all over, gasping out another curse. Athos hadn't quite realized, before that moment, that if he made Aramis feel good, it would carry over to Porthos, too--and suddenly his mind was awash with possibilities.

He hadn't had his mind racing in such an enjoyable way in years.

He caressed Aramis' head, running his fingers through the untidy mess of curls, and Aramis' low groan was utterly unrestrained, vibrating around Porthos' cock and making him shake against Athos.

"Does it feel good?" Athos murmured in Porthos' ear, the words coming from someplace inside him he hadn't known existed. He felt like they were breaking him apart, exposing places to the light that had never been seen before. 

"So _fucking_ good," Porthos gasped, his own fingertips brushing Athos' in Aramis' hair. "He's so fucking good, he's fucking sex on a stick--" Aramis _whined,_ looking up at them with those huge eyes, and he pressed up into their hands, his hips flexing down against the sheets. The curve of his back was mesmerizing.

"Do you like that?" Athos asked breathlessly. Aramis nodded as well as he could without taking his mouth away, moaning out an _uh-huh_ sound, and Porthos tightened his hand in Aramis' hair and tugged.

Aramis' eyes practically rolled back in his head, and he made the most fucking _obscene_ sound of pleasure Athos had ever heard as he let his jaw go totally slack. He slid his head down, and Athos watched in utter _fucking_ disbelief as he swallowed Porthos' cock down to the root, until his nose practically brushed the curls of his hair at the base.

The combination of the _sight_ and Porthos' choked-off sob of pleasure nearly made Athos come then and there--as it was, his vision went hazy with arousal and he couldn't draw air in anything but aching gasps. "How does it feel?" he managed to say against Porthos' shoulder. "How does he feel, is he--"

"He's fucking unbelievable," Porthos moaned, his eyes fixed on Aramis like he was staring at God. "Nobody's ever done this for me before--" Aramis moaned in pleasure, a sound of obvious pride, and Athos could feel Porthos shudder at the vibrations, his voice cracking. "He's doing this--this thing, _fuck,_ his tongue, and--and he's--Aramis, you-- _Aramis,_ fuck, I still can't believe it's--" His voice failed him and he let out a half-strangled cry, curling forward like he just couldn't help it, his thighs trembling on either side of Aramis' head. Athos could feel Porthos fighting with every muscle in his body not to thrust up into Aramis' mouth, not to choke him when he was already so deep--

And Aramis pulled up, pulled back just enough to look up at them with black, desperate eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was utterly fucking _destroyed_ and Athos couldn't _handle_ it-- "You can fuck my mouth," he gasped, resting his hands on Porthos' hips, bracing himself. "You can, I want you to, I can take it--I want you to come like that, Porthos, please--"

Porthos fell back totally onto Athos, choking out a broken _"Aramis,"_ and Aramis ducked his head and took Porthos deep in his throat again, his fingertips digging into Porthos' hips and _tugging_ as he pushed his head needily up into their hands. Aramis wanted this, Athos managed to think through the rushing thump of his heartbeat--Aramis was so fucking _proud,_ he wanted Porthos not to--not to have to--

"He doesn't want you to have to hold back," Athos gasped, pressing his forehead to Porthos'. Porthos groaned, his fingers twisting in Aramis' hair again, and Aramis moaned out a sound of agreement, his gaze sliding to Athos and so full of appreciation, of _love_ that Athos could barely stand it. He swallowed, hard, and went on, "Porthos, neither of us want you to--you've been so good for so long, but you don't have to hide anymore, you don't have to hold back--"

Porthos growled like he was _fighting_ himself, turning his face half to Athos even as his body tried to curl into Aramis again. "Don't--don't _tell_ me that unless you--unless you really mean it, I don't want to fucking hurt you--"

"He already said you can, he already said he wants it," Athos reminded him, and Aramis moaned loudly in agreement again, his eyes _begging_ as he slid his hands over Porthos' hips. "You can take it, Aramis?"

Aramis nodded without pulling away, turning the motion into two long strokes, humming delightedly, and when Porthos shuddered, Athos could feel his resolve breaking. Athos kissed Porthos' temple, his cheek, and wrapped both of his arms around him. "We've got you," he breathed. "Stop holding back."

Porthos' hips shuddered up, just once, into Aramis' mouth, and Aramis moved with it easily, bracing himself on Porthos' hips and letting his eyes fall shut. He didn't choke, didn't gasp or pull off--he just let out a low, pleased sound, his cheeks hollowing around Porthos' cock, and that did it.

Slowly at first, then more surely, Porthos let go. His head fell back onto Athos' shoulder as he looked down at Aramis with hazy eyes, and he rocked steadily up into Aramis' mouth, one hand still tangled in Aramis' curls. Aramis moved with him, his moans long and low and unbroken now, a continuous sound of pleasure, and Athos had never seen anything as _beautiful_ as the two of them together, taking and giving pleasure in a fucking _stunning_ feedback loop. 

Because Aramis was enjoying this as much as Porthos was, _clearly_ \--his eyes were closed, his expression almost serene, and Athos would be a fool to miss the way Aramis' hips kept pressing into the bed. They were both so totally shameless, so confident in taking their pleasure, in giving it to each other, and as Porthos pushed harder, Aramis' moans got louder, until the only sounds were Porthos' heaving breaths and Aramis _moaning_ and the slick sounds from Aramis' lips stretched around him--

Athos couldn't handle it, he wasn't going to be able to last, either, and all he could do was cling to Porthos and try just to _breathe,_ to take in as much of it as he could. When had he gotten so fucking lucky, that he could be here, watching this, _being_ with them? 

"Aramis," Porthos gasped at last, "Aramis, _Aramis,_ I'm gonna--"

Aramis groaned and nodded, his fingers flexing on Porthos' hips, and Athos didn't know whose face he wanted to watch more, Porthos' or Aramis'--

He'd have a lifetime to see both, he realized abruptly, and the scalding twist of feeling that thought sent through him made him moan aloud.

And it was _that,_ Athos' tortured, emotional sound of lust, that sent Porthos over the edge. He thrust up into Aramis' mouth and held, and his whole body shook as he choked out a breathless _"Aramis,"_ his eyes still fixed on Aramis, watching and _watching_ as Aramis sighed around his cock, his lips curling into the hint of a smile, his cheeks flushed and his hair drenched in sweat. He kept moving, never pulling off or stopping for the barest second--not until Porthos' body collapsed back into the sheets, sinking down against Athos, and even then, when Aramis pulled up he licked carefully at the base of Porthos' cock and shaft--long, gentle strokes that cleaned up any trace of stickiness.

Then, only then, did Aramis finally look up, and the look on his face almost had Athos coming on the spot.

His eyes were totally black, only the thinnest ring of brown visible around his blown pupils, and his lips were shiny and red, his cheeks flushed with color--Athos had never let himself even _imagine_ what Aramis would look like, sex-drunk and with lips swollen from cocksucking, and now he was glad he hadn't. The reality was so much better than anything he could have ever dreamed.

Porthos' hands landed shakily on Aramis' shoulders, and Aramis' eyelashes fluttered in unconscious delight at the touch. He looked so fucking _proud_ of himself, as he lifted his chin and smiled up at Porthos.

 _"Fucking_ God, get up here," Porthos gasped, and with a grin Aramis crawled up his body to fall into his kiss. Athos pressed a silent hand to the small of Aramis' back, just to still feel connected to them, and Aramis reached up to hold onto his shoulder even as he arched up against Porthos.

"I love you," Aramis whispered as Porthos pressed kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his brows. "I love you so much, I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel. I want you to know."

"I do," Porthos said, taking Aramis' face between his hands and kissing him long and hard. "I mean, I knew that _before_ you sucked my brains out through my cock, but I do now, too." He smiled, stroking his fingers over Aramis' cheeks and hair. "And I love you, too. Again, _before_ you blew me, but it certainly didn't change my mind."

Aramis' eyes closed in pleasure as Porthos peppered kisses over his neck and jaw. "I'm glad you liked it. It wasn't my best, but apparently you turn me into some kind of mindless sex fiend and all my strategy just goes away." Porthos snorted, and Aramis beamed, turning his face into Porthos' touch. "Give me some time to get used to it, and then you'll see what I can really do."

"If that wasn't your best," Athos said, well aware of how rough his own voice sounded, "I'm a little bit terrified of how good the best will be."

Aramis looked over at him, and his smile was slow and wicked. "Is that so?" he murmured, licking his lips--

And then his eyes went huge and every bone in his body seemingly turned to jelly as Porthos bit down on the mark Athos had sucked into Aramis' neck. 

He arched up into Porthos' mouth with a half-choked cry, collapsing against his chest, and his hips jerked uncontrollably against Porthos' belly. "Oh, _oh,_ fucking _Christ,_ you--"

"Our turn," Porthos growled against his lips. "Our turn to make you fall apart, Aramis." His dark eyes danced to Athos, out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth tugged up in that lopsided smile Athos so loved. "I assume you're on board with that, babe?"

Athos barely had to consider it. Aramis, strung-out and wanting between the two of them, while they worked together to make him shatter into ecstasy?

"I think," he said, his voice hitching, "I could bear that."

Porthos beamed at him, and Aramis got out a strangled laugh--that turned into a groan as Porthos manhandled him into sitting in the middle.

"God, just look at you," Athos said, swallowing hard to try and smooth some of the cracking edges off his voice. 

Aramis swallowed hard, reaching for him. "Yeah?"

"Fucking perfect," Porthos said, wrapping an arm around Aramis' waist and burying his face in Aramis' hair. Aramis arched back into him with a murmur, and Athos reached out to smooth a hand over Aramis' shoulder, arm, chest. Porthos sighed, sounding content like Athos had never heard him be, and he kissed Aramis' temple. "God, I still can't believe it's really you."

Aramis made a broken sound and chased Porthos' lips, holding him in a rough kiss for a long, long moment. "I'm here," Aramis said fiercely, and he reached out to grab Athos' wrist and drag him closer. "I'm here with you both, and I absolutely fucking worship you, and I am never leaving your sides ever again."

Porthos looked steadily at him, his face as open and loving as if he'd just seen God. 

Athos moved without thinking. 

Aramis moaned into his mouth when Athos dragged him into a fierce kiss, nearly frenzied with the sheer emotion he tried to pour into it, and Aramis' hands tangled in his hair, holding Athos so close there was no space to breathe. 

Porthos laughed breathlessly, stroking a hand over Athos' back. "What he said."

"I'm not good with words," Athos gasped as Aramis released him. "Better with action."

"I got the point," Aramis laughed, holding him close, closer, kissing Athos' cheeks and jaw and neck. "Porthos, did you have anything else you desperately needed to say about my cocksucking prowess?"

Athos snorted, and Porthos rolled his eyes, grinning. "I knew you'd be like this," Porthos said dryly, his hand coming to rest on Athos' lower back. 

"Always charming?" Aramis asked innocently. 

"A pain in the ass," Porthos laughed, leaning in to kiss him again. Aramis beamed at him, his eyes alight the way Athos loved--the way he hadn't seen in so long--and Porthos curled his fingers in Aramis' hair again, just holding on. 

Aramis smiled at him, ducking his head, and he looked over at Athos. "Am I a pain in the ass, Athos?" he purred, leaning in. He looked incredibly appealing, looking up through his lashes, and oh, he fucking knew it.

"You are," Athos said, tracing his fingers over Aramis' lips, just to watch his eyes darken. "Always. But we wouldn't love you if you were any other way."

Aramis' playful, coy smile slid into something softer, _realer,_ and Athos wondered if he'd be able to put that look on Aramis' face every time he said they loved him. He hoped so.

Without breaking eye contact, Aramis opened his mouth and sucked Athos' fingers inside. 

Athos made a low sound, unable to look away from Aramis' wide, innocent doe-eyes--how could he look like that and be doing _that_ with his tongue against the pad of Athos' fingers? 

"Knows what he's doing, huh?" Porthos rumbled, holding them both close. 

Athos nodded, struck speechless by the incongruity of the sweet look on Aramis' face and the painfully erotic things he was doing with his tongue out of sight. He'd done those things to Porthos, just now, Athos thought hazily--that little circle Aramis was tracing around the pad of Athos' index finger, he just did that to Porthos' cock.

"Oh, holy fucking hell," he said, and hardly recognized his own voice.

"Aramis," Porthos said, leaning in to kiss the side of his neck, "is there a reason you're getting Athos' fingers all dripping wet, or are you just making a point?"

For a second, just one, Athos wasn't sure what he meant. Then Aramis' already-blown pupils dilated even more, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as he stared fixedly at Athos, and Athos felt him choke down a sound. And Athos realized.

_Oh._

Aramis' jaw shuddered open, Athos' fingers falling out, and Aramis swallowed a lungful of air before saying, his eyes still wide and unblinking on Athos', "Well, I was just making a point, but--but now that you, you brought it up, I--"

Athos swayed forward into him, desperate to kiss him, to _devour_ him, but then he realized Aramis hadn't actually said it yet. Aramis broke off, his huge eyes begging Athos to move, and Athos swallowed down the rasp in his throat and said, "Go on."

Porthos' hand smoothed over Aramis' chest. "Ask us for it?" he said in Aramis' ear, his voice shaking only slightly, and he steadied himself by holding onto Aramis more tightly. "Tell us what you want us to do, please."

Aramis gave a full-body shudder between them, turning his head to brush against Porthos' cheek even as he kept his eyes locked on Athos. "I," Aramis began, his voice shaking and rough, "I want--can you both just touch me, please?"

"We can do that," Athos said, the words coming from that same place in him he didn't know he had. "Where would you like us to touch you?"

Aramis stared at him.

Then, with a broken groan of _"Everywhere,"_ he reached out and dragged Athos into a crashing, needy kiss. 

Athos did what he asked, feeling almost dizzy with the release of _permission,_ suddenly, and his hands kept running up against Porthos' as they both surrendered to their long-buried desire to touch _every single inch_ of Aramis' body.

"Do you know," Athos gasped into Aramis' mouth, "how long, how _long,_ Aramis, we've wanted to have you like this?"

Aramis moaned aloud, arching up and back, writhing between them. "T-tell me," he stuttered, rocking back and forth from Athos to Porthos. "Tell me, tell me everything, I want to know everything--" Aramis bit his lip, his hips canting up against Athos, and he held on like he'd fall if he let go. 

Porthos' lips and teeth found the place Athos had fixed on earlier, and Aramis sucked in a high gasp, shaking in Athos' hold. 

"Yeah," Porthos breathed against his neck, "yeah, I know, I know," and he fastened his mouth against the mark Athos had left. Aramis' eyes squeezed shut, and his hand came up to fist in Porthos' har. 

"Oh, God, yes, please, yes," he chanted, the push of his hips against Athos' becoming more forceful, more rhythmic, and Athos couldn't stand it.

He took his still-damp fingers and pressed them up against Aramis' lips. Aramis' mouth fell open instantly, and he moaned against Athos' fingers, his need echoing against Athos' fingerprints. 

Athos reached out wildly with his free hand for Porthos--he needed the familiar grounding, and Porthos leaned into his touch, looking half-wild himself as he met Athos' eyes.

His dark eyes went heavy with intent when he saw Aramis sucking on Athos' fingers, and Porthos lifted his head just enough to breathe--and then to gasp against Aramis' collarbone, "Do you want us to get lube or is this enough for right now?"

Athos bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to steady himself with the pain, and Aramis whined around his fingers. 

"This is fine," he gasped, letting Athos' hand go, and he pushed up onto his knees, pushing his hips into Athos' and arching so Porthos' shoulder held his head. "Please, _please,_ just -touch me--"

Athos hushed him with a kiss, then without any more teasing, slipped his hand between their bodies. His hand brushed Porthos' on the way down, and he squeezed Porthos' wrist in silent encouragement as Porthos almost gently took Aramis in hand. Aramis bucked and keened, and Athos slid his hand down to stroke lightly over his perineum with slick fingers.

He had never done this before. He knew Aramis (and possibly Porthos, from that question about lube) definitely had--but he only had the barest moment's worry of _what if I'm not good at it?_ before Aramis let out a shocked sound of desire and clutched desperately at Athos' shoulder, hair, arm. "Perfect, that's perfect, you two are _perfect,"_ Aramis choked, and Athos' nerves disappeared in a warm rush of elation.

He stopped worrying about precision and just went with what seemed right--stroking over the stretch of skin just there, or tracing light circles around--fuck, he couldn't even _think_ it without his brain turning to mush and his limbs to jelly, every part of him lightheaded with want. He wasn't sure how much of that was the _thought_ of being inside Aramis, or the actual _reality_ of Aramis held between him and Porthos, gasping and shuddering while Athos fingered him and Porthos slowly jerked him off and mouthed at the sensitive place on his neck.

"Is this good, is this okay?" Porthos asked, his voice rough as he lifted his head to rub his cheek against Aramis'. "You have to tell us, babe, you have to say what's good."

Aramis' throat worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed to gasp, "G-good, it's more than good, just what I've never let myself want--"

Athos' heart clenched, so much emotion flooding up and drowning him that he could only tighten the hand he had on Porthos' shoulder and press closer to Aramis. "We never thought, Aramis," Athos said, the words pulled up deep inside of him, "we barely even dared to hope, but we always, _always_ wanted--and now, now--"

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head desperately back and forth, his fingers tightening where they'd landed on Athos' shoulder. "I know, I _know,"_ he said, his voice strained and urgent, like he needed to get the words out fast, "we--we can start over, start again from here, I--I want--you two, I want, please, _please--"_

Athos leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Aramis', holding him tight and feeling the steady motion of Porthos' hand against his abdomen. This half-language of broken sentences barely skirted the edges of everything Athos was feeling, but he knew Aramis understood.

All words deserted them both when Athos finally stopped brushing around the edges and lightly pushed just the tip of one finger inside Aramis. Aramis sucked in a sharp, shivery breath, his hips stuttering down onto Athos, then back up into Porthos' hold, and Porthos groaned, low and heartfelt, resting his head on Aramis' shoulder. 

"How does it feel?" he asked, his lips moving against Aramis' skin. "'S it good?"

Aramis nodded frantically, his brow twisting and smoothing as Athos so slowly, _so_ carefully stroked him, worked just the tip of his finger in, out, around, back in, while he kept stroking outside with his other fingers, and his hands were shaking, every part of him was shaking with need and restraint. Aramis was shaking, too, trembling like Athos would never have dreamed, and thank God for Porthos, who was in his right mind enough to look after the two of them.

And also still had full possession of his powers of speech and was using them to full, excruciating effect, in that low, gravel voice of his that was starting to spark urgent shivers up and down Athos' spine. "You look fucking _gorgeous_ like this," Porthos murmured, brushing his lips over that sensitive place. "Both of you are, together like this--I never could have asked for anything more fucking beautiful for our first time, all three of us, never could have _imagined_ it'd be anything as mindblowing as this--"

"Stop talking," Athos ground out, barely holding on to his sanity, in the same second Aramis gasped, "Keep going--" Their eyes met, Porthos laughed, and Aramis groaned and fell forward into Athos for a kiss.

"I hope shit like that happens a lot," Porthos said, and Aramis choked against Athos' lips when Athos felt the motion of Porthos' hand speed up. "Not so much that we fight, but--y'know?"

Athos nodded frantically--he did, because the three of them were the most perfect together in slightly elliptical orbits, moving in and out of harmony but usually crossing close enough to match up. Aramis sighed his agreement, his lips trailing wet and soft over Athos' cheek and jaw. 

Porthos voice was low and amused. "So should I keep talking, or...?"

"That depends," Athos said, only just succeeding at keeping his voice steady. "Can you talk us both to orgasm, or are you just amusing yourself?"

Porthos chuckled and Aramis laughed breathlessly, rubbing his cheek against Athos'. "I'd forgotten how much I love that," he said, biting gently at Athos' earlobe. "You would be deadpan at your own funeral, darling."

"I would certainly hope so," Athos said, his filter completely abandoned, and both Aramis and Porthos laughed at that, pressing closer to him. His skin flushed warm all over, and he buried his face in Aramis' shoulder, hiding his smile. He curled his fingers against Aramis in lieu of further response, and Aramis whimpered, shaking against them.

"You are so fucking sensitive," Porthos marveled, his voice pitched for Athos to hear, too. "I bet we could touch you anywhere and it'd make you come, couldn't we?" 

"Oh, God, I want to find out," Aramis said in a rush, "I want to, I want you to--"

"Want us to touch you everywhere, find all those sensitive spots, you mean?" Porthos asked, his voice impossibly low. "Or want us to make you come?"

Athos had forgotten how utterly merciless in their teasing of each other Porthos and Aramis could be--it had never been so fucking attractive to him before. 

He felt Porthos' hand tighten and speed up on Aramis' cock, and Aramis let out a little cry, shaking against him. "Porthos," he said, like it was the only word he knew. "Porthos, Athos, please."

Athos lifted his head, needing to see their faces--oh, they were magnificent, Aramis' whole torso flushed and dripping with sweat, and Porthos with the side of his face pressed to Aramis' hair so he could whisper in his ear. His eyes met Athos' and he swallowed hard, kissing Aramis' cheek again. "I need you to use your words, gorgeous," he murmured in Aramis' ear. "Please...?"

On some baser, perverse impulse, Athos curled his fingers again, and Aramis' hips jerked uncontrollably against him. A strangled sound tore free from his chest, and he arched backward, bracing himself between the two of them. "Please, _please_ , I need it, _please,_ you two always take such good care of me, _please_ make me come--"

And what could they do except exactly what he asked, then? They shared wide, wild-eyed looks, and as he felt Porthos start working Aramis faster, harder, Athos very carefully stroked a little more forcefully, his eyes on Aramis' face for any pain. But Aramis' whole expression was slack with pleasure, words falling from his lips like they were pushing out of him with every stroke-- "Fuck, you're so fucking good to me, after this, after everything, you--you still--" 

His words dissolved on a moan as Porthos mouthed over the sensitive place on his neck again, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment until Athos restarted his voice with a well-timed press of his fingers. "Love you," Aramis gasped, rocking back onto Athos' hands and forward into Porthos' grip, and Athos' stomach twisted with painful emotion. "Love you both so fucking much, loved you for so fucking long--"

Athos and Porthos both pressed closer to him, on emotion and instinct and because what else could they _do,_ and Aramis shivered at their touches, his breath coming heavy and fast now.

Athos looked pleadingly at Porthos--the words would stick in his throat, but Porthos could say it for both of them, Porthos could make Aramis believe it--

"We love you, too," Porthos said in his ear, wrapping his other arm tight around Aramis' chest. "We've got you."

Aramis' eyes fluttered open, landing right on Athos' face, and Athos nodded, his eyes locked on Aramis'. "We're right here," he said, and he hardly recognized his own voice. "We'll never leave, Aramis."

"Promise?" Aramis moaned, and all the muscles in his stomach and thighs were starting to twitch, Athos could _feel_ it, but Aramis wasn't letting himself fall--he wouldn't look away from Athos' face, his wide eyes pleading. Aramis' eyes were so dark, so open, so vulnerable, and more than ever before, Athos felt the sheer fucking weight of what they were doing. He felt a sudden surge of _protectiveness,_ stronger than he'd ever felt, and he reached up with his free hand to cup Aramis' face.

"I promise, Aramis," he said, and he meant it more than any promise he'd ever made.

Aramis choked on a sob and came in their arms.

He didn't close his eyes--he didn't look away. He kept his eyes locked on Athos, and Athos watched, completely transfixed, as Aramis shook apart. His whole body jerked and shivered, his head falling back against Porthos', and he clung to both of their shoulders. Athos' heart skipped a beat as he felt the hot splash of Aramis' come on his stomach, and he heard Porthos' rough exhale of breath. Only then did Aramis close his eyes, turning his face into Porthos' warmth, his chest heaving as he trembled through aftershocks.

Porthos held him close, their foreheads resting as he hugged Aramis to his chest, Aramis' back flush against his front, and Athos traced his thumb back and forth over Aramis' cheek.

Slowly, trying not to disturb him, Athos slipped his other hand free, and Aramis opened his eyes with a soft sound of regret, turning his head to blink dazedly at Athos and pull him closer. 

"Are you all right?" Athos murmured, forcing down the trembling in his own limbs.

"Give me a minute," Aramis said, still breathless, and he tugged them both closer. "I haven't--that is--it isn't normally so overwhelming for me, I just--"

"I know," Porthos said, kissing his forehead. "Believe me, I don't normally lose myself like that, either."

Athos gave him a look. "Don't you?" The two times they'd been together, he remembered Porthos being just as--well, edge-of-control as he had been tonight.

Porthos gazed steadily at him. "No, actually," he said softly, and it took Athos a moment to comprehend his meaning.

Athos could make him fall apart, too?

A wave of warmth swept from his cheeks down to his chest, curling in the pit of his stomach, and he swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was to both of them, how they were both naked and he was still--fuck, was he still totally dressed? He hadn't even taken off his shirt. God, he was _shitty_ at this. 

"He really has no idea, does he?" Aramis said to Porthos, still slurring his words slightly as he sat up on his own. 

Porthos shook his head, a knowing heat in his gaze. "He looked like I'd started speaking another language when I told him how perfect he was the first time."

"Mmm," Aramis hummed, looking Athos up and down. "He would."

"I'm--" Athos' voice cracked, and he was still _painfully_ aroused, even after the pause, even having both of their eyes on him like this. It was nearly too much, but--but it was all right, still, somehow. "I'm still right here, you know."

"Yes, you are," Aramis said, and leaned forward to kiss him. His lips moved lightly over Athos', then he pulled back, his eyes clearer. "Get naked. I want you."

"You just had me," Athos said, his brain running on autopilot.

"No, I think it was the other way around," Aramis said, his smile widening. Fuck, Athos loved that smile. He wanted to kiss it off his face. He probably could, now. That was probably something Aramis would let him do.

"Do you not want to?" Porthos asked suddenly, and when Athos' eyes snapped to his face, he could see concern written plainly there. "It's fine if you don't--"

"What are you _talking_ about," Athos blurted out, looking at him in horror, "of course I--"

Then he realized how disgustingly overeager that had sounded and shut his mouth, blushing horribly again. 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged knowing looks. That was really not fair, Athos thought faintly, that they'd only been like this for--how long? An hour, maybe two? Fuck, how long had it been, was it morning yet?--and the two of them were already exchanging fucking _knowing looks._

"Our Athos," Aramis said, blinking those sex-sated eyes at him with a sleepy, pleased smile. It was nearly too much for Athos, just that--he'd never thought he'd get to see Aramis like this--blissed-out because of _him,_ in _his_ bed, giving him that look. 

"Do you want us to take care of you?" Porthos asked, resting his chin on Aramis' shoulder and fixing those warm, dark eyes on Athos, too. "Because it's your turn, and we definitely want you."

Athos couldn't do more than stare at them both while he tried to get his voice to work. He wanted that. He was _terrified_ of that. He'd been so afraid of wanting that for so long he'd never even let himself imagine how it could happen.

It seemed only fitting, though, that everyone had gotten to be the center of attention for a little while tonight. They'd all had their chance to apologize to each other that way--had the chance to remember exactly how much they cared, in exactly which ways. 

Athos supposed it was, in fact, his turn to be lavished with affection.

Fuck.

"I don't even know what I want," he said finally, his heartbeat so thick in his throat he could barely get the words out. "Just--just that it's you."

That was more than he'd ever thought he'd be able to say, and so much fucking less than he was sure they deserved.

But from the way both of their faces went warm, sharpening with surety and desire--they seemed to understand what he really meant. 

Aramis reached out and ran his hands up Athos' arms, fingertips trailing along Athos' skin and sending goosebumps prickling up in a shiver that went all the way down his spine. "We can figure it out together, then," he said gently. "Do you want us to take your clothes off?"

Athos swallowed. "I already feel naked," he said, only half-joking, and they both smiled. It gave him the courage to smile back. "Yes. Yes, I want that."

Porthos' smile was grounding, familiar, and Athos swayed into it as Porthos shifted closer on the bed and reached for him. "We've got you," Porthos murmured as his lips traced over Athos'. "We're not gonna let you fall."

Athos swallowed. "I know," he said. He took a breath, let it out, and lifted his chin, welcoming their hands moving over his skin. "I know."

Slowly, so very slowly, Porthos and Aramis stripped him of his clothing. Porthos pulled his t-shirt off over his head, and Aramis bent his head to kiss the exposed lines of Athos' muscles as he did. When Athos started to shiver, his fingers winding needily into Aramis' hair, Porthos hushed him and pulled Athos back against his chest. "Do you still want us to get your jeans off?" Porthos said, stroking Athos' hair. "It's okay if it's too much."

Athos closed his eyes, feeling tears burning hot at the corners. He didn't want Porthos to be right, but--fuck, it nearly was, it was nearly enough to make him curl up and sob. How fucked-up was he, that something as gentle, as simple as this could possibly be too much?

"I want it," he said, turning his face into Porthos' shoulder. "I do. It's not too much."

"Stop me if it is," Aramis whispered, his fingers moving to the fly of Athos' jeans. Athos swallowed and nodded to avoid having to speak, and Aramis carefully slipped the button on his jeans--tugged his zipper down--hooked a hand in the waistband of his jeans.

Athos nearly convulsed out of his own skin as Aramis carefully pulled them down. He wanted this, oh, fuck, he wanted this so badly--too badly--too much. He didn't want them to feel like they owed him this, but he loved having both of them too much to try and make it stop--and yet--and yet. It made him want to cry, having both of their focuses so bent on him. He didn't deserve so much care.

Aramis gently worked his jeans down his legs, let them drop off his feet to rest on the floor. Then he slid back up the bed to sit beside him, one hand tracing gently over Athos' side, not even brushing the waistband of his boxers. He could tell, Athos could see it in his fucking face, he could tell Athos was having trouble with even this. "Besides Porthos," Aramis said, "have you ever, I mean, with another boy...?"

Athos shook his head, leaning gratefully back when Porthos put an arm around him. "No. But that's--I don't think that's--"

"I'm not saying so," Aramis said easily, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But you can be nervous about more than one thing."

"I'm not nervous," Athos said. He closed his eyes as Porthos kissed his hair. "I wish it were just nerves."

"Can you say what it is?" Porthos asked, the steady vibration of his voice in his chest echoing against Athos' back. 

Athos reached out a hand, groping blindly for Aramis, and he relaxed a little more when Aramis' long, slender fingers threaded through his own. 

"I don't know how to get into it without--getting in too deep," he said, keeping his eyes shut as he felt Aramis move closer, until Aramis' heat was pressed all up against his side, against Porthos. There were still some things he couldn't bear to tell them. He didn't know if he could do it without crying, without yelling or shutting down completely, or triggering something deeper and worse.

He was very nearly sure it wouldn't make them _leave_ \--but it was that bare hint of uncertainty that made him unable to speak at all. He couldn't bear to lose them both at once. Those few minutes earlier tonight, after the fight and before Porthos came, when he thought he'd irrevocably fucked things up with both of them, had been some of the worst of his life.

"You don't have to get into it at all, then," Aramis said softly. "I told you two about--about all of my shit today, because I needed you to understand why I acted the way I did, and that was the only way I could think of to do it." Athos squeezed his hand, and he felt Aramis' fingers tighten gratefully in exchange. "I don't want you to think you have to reciprocate. Not tonight. If we need to slow down, it's all right."

"I don't _want_ to slow down," Athos said, opening his eyes to look at him. Aramis' face was so soft and understanding, it nearly killed him. "I just don't know how to feel things like this anymore without having a fucking breakdown. I want it, I do, but I don't know if I'm even capable, not the way I am now."

He felt Porthos' breath huff out warm against the back of his neck. 

Aramis' eyes were so sad as he lifted Athos' hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. "Athos," he said, unbearably gently. "You are not broken, my love."

Broken.

That was what he'd been dancing around, wasn't it? _Broken._ Too shattered to feel anything wholly, in too many little pieces to be able to handle what little he could. 

Aramis, with his perfect insight, had seen directly to Athos' worst fear. That was why he'd always loved Aramis--and always been so afraid of him: he could read Athos so clearly. He could cut to the bone when he wanted to, or peel away every sick and fucked-up defense Athos had and see straight to his heart.

How could Aramis say he wasn't broken? Aramis had fucking _been_ there. Aramis had been on the receiving end of Athos' malfunctioning, malformed emotional outbursts.

 _You are not broken._ How did Aramis know?

"Are you sure about that?" Athos half-laughed, and his voice broke. "What kind of functioning human being loses his grip so completely that he can't be touched without crying? Does a _whole_ person scream vitriol at the person he cares about most in the world because he doesn't know how to be gentle? How in the hell can I _not_ be broken when you two mean more to me than literally anyone else in the world, and I can't even tell you that I--"

His voice failed him completely, then, and Athos realized he was crying. He took a deep breath, then another, and reached up with his free hand to wipe his eyes. "Case in fucking point," he said quietly, and looked down at the blanket. 

Light fingers brushed his cheek, and he lifted his eyes to see Aramis wiping his tears, that same unbearable compassion on his face. "Hearts don't really break, _cariño,"_ he said. "Neither do people." 

Aramis' voice was soft, but firm, and he spoke with a terrible weight of experience. He reached up to brush Athos' hair back from his face, his face sad and serious. "People can get hurt, and they can get overwhelmed, sad and lonely and lost, but they don't break. You're not broken."

Athos turned his face into Aramis' touch, so _exhausted,_ suddenly. "How do you know?" he said, his voice barely audible. "How do you _know,_ Aramis? You're not in here, you don't know how hard it is to get everything moving and working enough to do the simplest things."

Aramis reached up with both hands to cradle Athos' face. He pushed Athos' sweaty hair back, smoothed his thumbs over Athos' cheekbones, and he smiled. "Well," he said fairly, "I didn't say you weren't fucked-up."

Athos laughed. Just once, and it was a weak thing, but Aramis' face warmed, and Porthos' arms tightened around him. "I am that," he admitted, and it was Porthos' turn to reach up and stroke his hair back, press another kiss to it. 

"You are not broken," Porthos said gently, and he curled his body around Athos so they could see each other's faces. Porthos' eyes were serious, but there was so much affection there--carefully guarded, like he didn't want to blind Athos with how bright the light was. "You have been through so much shit, babe, and it messed you up, because it would have messed anybody up." He half-laughed, pulling his arms a little tighter around Athos. "Hell, you haven't even _told_ us half of it and I know I wouldn't have been able to fucking deal." 

Aramis beamed at him, and Athos felt the first stirrings of that gloriously warm feeling that had filled him up that first night with Porthos.

Porthos smiled back, rubbing his hands gently up and down Athos' arms. "And from what we can tell, you haven't had anybody halfway decent to help you unfuck yourself until now. That's all, Athos. It isn't your fault, it isn't anything you _did,_ and it does not mean you are broken."

Athos let his body curl into Porthos. Just a little. Not enough to break him down. "I shouldn't need the help," he said softly, his voice still rough.

Aramis sighed and slid closer, something in Spanish slipping out under his breath. Porthos' gentle smile didn't change, even as he let out a breath, too, and tightened his arms around Athos. "That," he said, "is the stupidest fucking thing you have ever said."

Athos closed his eyes and smiled, and he finally let himself curl all the way into Porthos and Aramis' warmth. 

"Everybody needs help," Aramis murmured against his hair. "I can't believe we're having to fucking tell you this. Haven't we heard you give this exact speech to dozens of hapless beginners every year?"

Athos shook his head, tugging on his and Aramis' still-joined fingers to pull him closer. "I can't believe I'm making you comfort _me_ when I was the one screaming horrible things at you and making you cry earlier."

"Our lives are funny like that," Aramis said, and kissed the back of Athos' ear. 

"It's not a score sheet," Porthos said, and from the way Aramis hummed out a happy sound, Athos figured Porthos had his arms around both of them. "Everybody's cried tonight. We've all hurt each other. And now we're all putting each other back together."

"You lashed out because you were hurt and you were scared of how much it hurt you," Aramis said softly, with that same painfully clear insight that brought tears to Athos' eyes. "And I hit back--I spent three weeks hitting back--because I was scared of what I was feeling. Porthos made us all stay in this room and talk because he was scared of losing this. I think the best course of action is to just stop scaring the shit out of each other."

"You're so fucking good at this," Porthos said, his deep voice echoing with pride, and Athos heard the wet press of his lips to Aramis'.

"I'm bisexual and Catholic," Aramis said dryly. "I've spent years learning how to compromise."

Athos shuddered out another laugh, and they both hugged him close. "I really am sorry," he said then, because he didn't know how else to say it. "I feel like it's been my own emotional shit that's messed this up the worst."

"I don't think so," Aramis said, and kissed the top of his neck. "And from the look on Porthos' face right now, he doesn't either. But if you think so, and if you need me to say it, then, I forgive you."

Athos smiled despite himself. "What exactly _is_ the look on Porthos' face right now?"

"It's sort of an exasperated scowl combined with utterly helpless adoration," Aramis said, his voice light. "Oh, no, now it's a smile."

"You fucker," Porthos said, and Athos felt both of them press closer above him, heard the soft sounds of their lips touching.

He drifted a little like that, held close in their arms, his thoughts far away. They'd just given him a lot to think about. 

That liquid warm feeling was back, and Athos had to remind himself-- _that's happiness, you lunatic. You're happy._

Happy. He was happy with them. They understood; they knew it was fear, and uncertainty, and years' worth of messed-up emotional work making him so awful and afraid. They knew it wasn't _them_ \--and apparently, that it wasn't really _him,_ either. They could take his word that it wasn't how he really felt--that he felt deeper than he could let himself go right now, that the feelings were there, that he wanted to express them. 

They believed him. They believed that he loved them, even if he couldn't get the words out. They didn't need him to prove it, or--or.

Or, Athos realized, for the first time, he'd proven it to them already.

It was a revelation to think that he'd already cleared the first hurdle. His only responsibility was to make sure they _kept_ knowing. 

He lifted his head at last, and it was Porthos he saw first. 

"There you are," Porthos said, beaming, and Athos leaned in to kiss him. It was a worn-out little gesture of thanks, but maybe he didn't have to move the earth every time. 

And Porthos made a pleased sound, one hand moving from Athos' arm to his face, and he kissed Athos back just as warmly as if Athos had gone in for a huge, romantic Hollywood kiss. 

Porthos' lips were soft. Soft and a little swollen, Athos realized, damp from Aramis' mouth, and as exhausted as he was, the thought was enough to send another spark of heat through him. It would be a long time, he supposed, until the thought of Porthos and Aramis enjoying each other failed to turn him on in any way at all.

When Aramis pressed a kiss to his neck, Athos turned unthinkingly to him, putting a hand to Aramis' hair and pulling him in for a kiss of his own. It felt good. Aramis sighed into his mouth, a bone-deep, contented sound, and Athos' body sparked again. That spark caught in the kindling their previous frenzy had set, flaring into a small, eagerly growing flame.

He made a sound of his own against Aramis' lips, and Aramis pulled back with a surprised, pleased look. "Oh?"

"Feeling good again?" Porthos murmured against his neck, his hands caressing Athos' sides, fingers running over his abs and palms smoothing down his hips. 

"Yes," Athos said, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. "Keep doing that?"

"I'll do whatever you want," Porthos said, all the weight of a promise in his voice. Athos turned his head to kiss him again, needing the connection, and Aramis pressed gentle, lingering kisses along the line of his collarbone, his neck, his shoulder.

This wasn't the grasping need he'd felt when he and Porthos had had Aramis between them, or the scalding, desperate heat he'd felt watching Aramis take Porthos into his mouth. This was a bonfire--it was huge, but it didn't race through him, consuming everything; it built deep in his core, radiating heat out to every part of him. 

It felt safe. It felt like that first three-way embrace, on the edge of the bed after Aramis had poured out his heart, after they'd finally been able to apologize to each other.

It felt like home.

Aramis kissed him, deep, steady, while Porthos cradled him close and surrounded him with warmth, and Athos sighed against Aramis' lips. It felt so good. For the first time, he didn't feel like both of them, focusing on him, was too much. Porthos was right; it wasn't a score sheet. They didn't expect anything for this; they weren't seeing it as payback for what he'd done for them.

"Is this how it feels," he asked breathlessly, when Aramis moved to scatter kisses over his face and hair, "not to worry about something?"

Aramis made a little sound, his eyes going soft, and Porthos pressed his lips to the back of Athos' neck. "How does it feel?" Porthos asked, his voice as gentle as his hands.

"Just...warm," Athos said, his focus slipping as Aramis' hands joined Porthos on his sides. "Warm and easy." He sighed, arching his head back, as Aramis kissed the side of his throat. "Safe."

"Yeah," Porthos whispered. His voice sounded tight, and the kiss he pressed to Athos' temple was a little fiercer than usual. "Yeah, babe, that's how it feels."

"It's good," Athos said, his voice going breathy as Aramis' lips traced over the base of his neck. "Really good."

"I'll bet," Aramis breathed against his skin. 

The heat against his damp skin made him shiver, and the hand he had on Aramis' shoulder tightened. 

"What do you want, Athos?" Porthos asked. Their voices were all so quiet, no one talking above a whisper. Distantly, Athos wondered if they were all afraid to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over him. "Is this okay, is it too much?"

"It's..." Athos pressed eagerly into Porthos' touch on his ribs, into Aramis' kisses. "It's not enough, I think--I think I want more." He'd been so terrified to say those words half an hour before, and now they were--if not _easy_ \--coming with so much less of a fight.

"Do you want us to touch you?" Aramis asked, lifting his head. There was a _want_ there that warmed Athos all over, a hope that Athos would say yes. Aramis loved giving, he was coming to see. 

"Yes," he said, shifting his hips up into their touches. "Yes, I do."

Porthos shuddered beside him, and in unison he and Aramis slid their hands down his body, never breaking contact with his skin until their hands moved slowly over his boxers.

 _"Oh,_ that's better," Athos gasped, his head falling forward onto Aramis' shoulder. Warm, and steady--steady touches, a steady heat and pressure, and it felt so good. _Good_ was not an adequate word for how it felt. 

They were both so close, holding him up between their bodies, and that was almost better than their touch. He hoped they never had to be further away from him than this ever again.

"Can you--" He cleared his throat, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could see their hands, moving on him. He reached down, too, tugging at the waistband of his boxers, his voice tangling in sudden frustration. "Can you help me, just, get these off--"

"Of course we can," Aramis said, stroking his hair with his other hand. "Our pleasure, in fact." And Porthos chucked softly as he helped Athos lift up onto his knees a little more, so they could get his boxers down his thighs, then up onto his toes so they wouldn't catch on his calves, and then--

Then he was naked as the two of them, and he was hard and hot all over and they were still touching him, they were still close, they still wanted him. 

"You're a sight to see when you're like this," Aramis murmured, tilting Athos' face up with his free hand to kiss him. "It's a privilege, I hope you know."

"So are you," Athos said, resting his forehead against Aramis. "So are both of you. You're--I never feel like I deserve you." It was easier to say that, too, after what Porthos and Aramis had finally made him see. He really didn't deserve them.

"Well, lucky we get to decide that, and not you," Porthos said, and Athos could feel his smile against the side of his neck.

He let out a breathless sound that could have been a laugh. It caught in his throat, though, as they laced their fingers together around his cock, and when he found his voice again, it came out as a groan. _"Ohh,_ Aramis--Porthos--"

"Yes?" Aramis kissed the corner of his mouth. "Is it still good?"

_"Yes."_

"Are you close?" Porthos asked--it didn't seem urgent, though, not a demand; like he just wanted to know, so he could know what they needed to do.

Athos sighed out in bliss as their hands sped up, their strokes firmer, faster. "Yes," he said, his voice hazy to his own ears. "Yes, I think so."

"Good," Aramis said, and his lips moved gently over Athos' again. "Just want you to feel good, like you've made us feel so good tonight. We love you."

Athos moaned, a soft sound of absolute pleasure the only response he could make to that, and he could feel the physical sensation building at the base of his spine, even as his thoughts started to drift away, a warm tide starting to rush in. He hadn't ever come like this, he thought dazedly, slow and building--it had always been such a frenzied action before, never so sweet and easy like this.

They really did have him. 

"You can let go now, Athos," Porthos said, and his voice washed over Athos and filled him up. "You've been so strong today, love, but you don't have to be any more. You can let go. You won't fall. We've got you."

And Athos believed it.

The wave broke over him and pulled him under, pleasure cresting in every single part of his body, and his thoughts went beautifully, blissfully, _miraculously_ blank.

When he finally came back to his body, he was stretched out on his back between Porthos and Aramis, his skin tingling and warmth still curling out from the pit of his stomach. They were curled on their sides on either side of him, gazing at him with something very akin to wonder, and Athos smiled up at them. "Hello," he said softly. 

"Welcome back," Aramis said, and kissed him. "You were out of it for a minute there."

"His brain's been through a lot today," Porthos said, stroking his hand over Athos' chest. 

"Has it?"

"It was a five-alarm panic attack kind of day," Athos said, stretching. He couldn't remember ever feeling this good, this dazed and drowsy. 

"Oh," Aramis said, his voice faint, and when Athos looked at him, he looked a little guilty.

"No," Athos said, fixing him with as stern a look as he could manage in his current condition. "No, we're not...just...no. Stop it."

And Aramis burst out laughing, his face going happy and warm. "All right," he laughed. "Whatever you want."

"Don't patronize me," Athos yawned, turning his face into Porthos' shoulder. He didn't want to go to sleep, he didn't want this night to end, ever, at all, but a pleasant lassitude had settled over him, sinking into his bones. Maybe he'd just drift, like this.

Wait.

He opened his eyes and frowned up at Porthos. "Why am I in the middle?"

Porthos, who'd been watching their whole exchange with a smile, lifted his eyebrows at that. "Because you came so hard you knocked yourself out."

"That's a terrible reason," Athos said, and pushed himself up on one elbow. "Aramis should be in the middle."

"I'm fine," Aramis said. But his eyes had gone soft and vulnerable again, and that decided it. 

Athos threw his leg over Aramis and pulled himself on top of Aramis' body. He kissed him thoroughly to make sure he was well and truly distracted--Porthos hummed out a pleased sound--then rolled onto Aramis' other side and gave him a good push towards Porthos. "There. Better."

"Mmm, yeah," Porthos agreed, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Aramis before he could argue. "I'm good like this."

Aramis blinked up at the both of him, that vulnerability plain on his face again. "Well, if you both insist," he said, a faint smile curving his lips.

"We do," Athos said, pressing close to him. "Or at least, I do." His eyelids were heavy--his whole head felt heavy--and he rested it on Aramis' shoulder, sighing out in boneless contentment again.

"Are you passing out on us?" Aramis teased him, his fingers brushing over Athos' messy stubble. "You, of all people?"

"Five-alarm panic attacks," Athos reminded him, his voice already starting to slur slightly. "If you don't need me any more, I might just...close my eyes."

"Do that," Porthos said firmly. 

"You two should...catch up, though," Athos managed to add, feeling his body starting to sink down into the sheets. "Talk." 

The word triggered something in his thoughts, and Athos forced his head up, blinking his eyes open. Their faces swam back into focus, and Athos shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. "No, I shouldn't--we need to. We have...lots of talking to do."

They both reached out to push him back down, and while his eyes were open, he took a moment to appreciate the sight--Aramis, lying in his bed like he _belonged_ there, because he did, with Porthos curled up along his side, holding Aramis protectively to him. Aramis looked comfortable, Porthos looked happier than Athos had ever seen him, and Athos let them settle him back down onto Aramis' shoulder.

"In the morning," Aramis murmured. "We'll all talk in the morning."

"And the morning after that," Porthos yawned, "and the one after that. We're gonna be talking for the rest of our lives."

The thought, surprisingly, did not fill Athos with terror. 

"I'll be here," he sighed, and closed his eyes again, burrowing his face into Aramis' shoulder.

It all went warm and dark after that, the low murmur of their voices--both of them, gentle and quiet and _here,_ with him, together--cradling him like their touches had. 

They'd have a lot more tough things to say in the morning, he knew. 

But that was a thousand years away, and for now, Athos sighed and relaxed against Aramis, feeling Porthos' hand curling around his own on Aramis' chest.

Athos slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have been the very best fans in anticipating this chapter; I hope it was everything you wanted. As always, you can find me on [tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more, a morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begin conversations, negotiations, and an interlude of happy shit. I wasn't expecting a new chapter so soon, but I hit a good break and decided, eh, it's a holiday. Enjoy!

When Athos woke, he lay awake for a long time before he felt brave enough to open his eyes. 

Everything _felt_ like he hadn't dreamed it--he could feel the coolness of the wall at his back, and his body was still more relaxed than he'd ever felt it. His lips felt a little swollen, and, yes, he could definitely hear at least one someone else breathing.

So, at least even odds on not being a dream, which was good. If it had all been a dream--a vivid, excruciatingly emotional dream--he was just going to roll over and never leave this bed for the rest of his life.

_Dear God, please, please let it have happened. Please let them still be here._

The bed shifted, and someone made a sleepy snuffling sound beside him. 

Tentatively, Athos cracked open an eye.

Aramis' face was barely inches from his, and he was sound asleep. His eyelashes lay long and dark on his cheeks, his lips were still a little kiss-bitten, and the hickey on his neck glowed a deep red-purple.

A darker-skinned arm lay across his chest, and when Athos craned his neck slightly, he could see Porthos spooned up against Aramis' back, his face pressed to Aramis' neck. Porthos was smiling in his sleep, and Athos' heart seized with an almost unbearable affection.

They were still there. They were both still there.

It had really happened.

Athos couldn't stop himself--he reached out and brushed his fingers along Aramis' face, tracing the line of his jaw, his cheekbone, his lips. He was real. He was _real,_ he was here in Athos' bed, and he loved them.

Athos' phone buzzed loudly on his desk, Aramis' brow scrunched up, and Athos snatched his hand back. Shit.

Porthos stirred on Athos' other side, half-rolling over--moving the arm he had over Aramis' side--and groping blindly for the offending object. His hand closed around it, and he brought it to his nose and squinted at it. "D'Artagnan," he muttered, and tossed it over Aramis to land somewhere near Athos' hip.

Aramis groaned pitifully and buried his face even further into his pillow. "No," he moaned in despair, "ohh, no, I was having such a good dream..."

Porthos yawned and rolled back onto his side, throwing his arm over Aramis' side again and pressing up against his back. "You weren't dreaming, Aramis."

Aramis' eyes shot open. He stared at Athos, then looked sharply down at his own body--at how clearly naked both he and Athos were, at Porthos' arm slung over his waist. He pushed himself up on one arm and looked behind him, staring down at Porthos. 

Porthos didn't even stir, didn't even crack an eye. "You can take a picture, if you want," he mumbled. "Athos says I look pretty good in the mornings."

Athos grinned. Aramis stared.

Then a beatific smile spread over his face, and he settled back down, flopping bonelessly back into the sheets and snuggling down closer to Athos. "Oh," he sighed, pulling Porthos' arm back over his waist. "Never mind, then."

Athos had to bury his face in his pillow to hide his smile.

"What does the puppy want?" Aramis yawned, arching back slightly to rub against Porthos.

"Oh." Athos reached down to fumble in the blankets for his phone, shifting onto his back with a sigh. He thumbed open his text messages and blinked sleepily at them. 

The first he read, the one that had woken them, was more or less what Athos had been expecting: [hey--hope you're ok after last night. :/ door was locked this a.m. so just left w/o saying bye.]

And then, a second one, sent sometime in the middle of last night--

[If you guys get divorced, please tell me you get custody of me.]

Athos gave an extremely undignified snort, and Aramis cracked open an interested eye. "Hmm?"

Still snickering, Athos just passed his phone over to Aramis. "That boy is a fucking menace."

Aramis laughed delightedly, rolling onto his back and beaming at the phone. "He's precious. Athos, Porthos, smile."

Athos tilted his head towards Aramis, frowning--and then he noticed Aramis holding the phone up at arm's length, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

"Are you taking a fucking picture?" he half-laughed in disbelief. 

"Yep," Aramis said, tapping the screen delicately with one finger. _"There_ we go. Smile, both of you."

Athos closed his eyes, barely controlling his laughter. Porthos didn't even bother--even half-muffled by his pillow, his deep, rich laugh filled the room. 

There was a click, and Aramis made a sound of triumph. "Lovely."

Athos held out an imperious hand, still refusing to lift his head from his pillow. "Aramis."

"Just a second." He could hear Aramis' fingers tapping on the screen.

_"Aramis."_

"Done." He passed the phone back to Athos and sighed happily, pulling Porthos' arm back over him like a blanket. 

Athos shot him a warm look, then turned his gaze to the text Aramis had just sent. [Worked it out.] was all it said, and then there was the picture.

Athos' heart gave a little quiver in his chest as he opened the picture. Aramis had somehow managed to get all three of them in the frame from the shoulders up--himself in the middle, beaming up at the camera (his raised arms hid the mark on his neck, and Athos appreciated that he hadn't wanted to traumatize d'Artagnan _that_ much); Porthos on his side, laughing, that smile of his that Athos so loved on full display; and Athos himself, his head turned towards Aramis, eyes closed and lips curled in a smile, like he was trying not to laugh. 

You could tell, in the picture, that both he and Porthos were pressed as close to Aramis as they could be. And they all looked so-- 

Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat.

_Happy._

"It's a pretty good picture for a sleepy selfie," Aramis said, and Athos glanced up at him. Even with sleep-clouded eyes, his gaze was knowing.

"Yes, it is," Athos said. It was all he could manage, but Aramis' smile widened, and he knew Aramis understood.

His phone buzzed again in his hand, and Athos glanced down at it. He snorted aloud again. 

"What?" Porthos rumbled, cracking open an eye.

"'Oh, God,'" he read aloud, "'my eyes. Thank the Lord I have a week to brain bleach that.'"

Aramis snickered delightedly, and Porthos pressed a messy kiss to the back of his neck. "You," he said, pushing a hand through Aramis' hair the wrong way, "are corrupting our youth."

"I'm delighted," Aramis laughed, turning in Porthos' embrace and pulling him in for a kiss. "Mmm, good morning."

"Good morning," Porthos murmured, taking Aramis' face in his hands and kissing him more seriously.

Athos pressed closer, taking his turn to spoon up against Aramis' back. Aramis practically purred, shifting his ass against Athos' hips. 

Athos' blood jolted in his veins, and he was suddenly _very_ awake. "That didn't take long," he half-laughed, his hand trailing low on Aramis' waist. "Didn't you _just_ wake up?"

"I have very vivid dreams," Aramis said, breathing out heavily against Porthos' mouth. "Would both of you be physically and metaphorically up for a quick round of morning sex?"

"Shit," Porthos breathed, and Athos' answering groan felt like it had been torn from the pit of his chest.

He was a little dizzy from all the blood in his body rushing from his brain to his groin--but that was all, he realized slowly, as Aramis hummed happily into another of Porthos' deep, searing kisses. He wasn't scared--he didn't feel that sinking drop of his stomach, the twisting tightness of his chest. He still felt relaxed. He could actually enjoy this. 

Experimentally, he rolled his hips against Aramis' ass, his half-hard cock coming awake as fast as the rest of him had, and Aramis moaned softly--that same low, intoxicating moan that had driven Athos absolutely wild the night before. 

"Is that a yes, then, babe?" Porthos asked, grinning at him, and Athos smiled back.

"I think it is," he said, his voice low.

_"Wonderful,"_ Aramis sighed, arching between them.

"I can't believe we get to see you like this now," Porthos murmured, and his hand joined Athos' on the dip of Aramis' waist. "I can't believe we get to wake up and have you draped over us like this."

"Gagging for it?" Aramis teased breathlessly, and he smiled filthily at him. "Especially _gagging_ for you, hmm, Porthos?"

"God _damn_ it," Porthos growled, and his other hand fisted in Aramis' hair as he dragged his head close for another deep, devouring kiss. They were all still naked, and Athos was already delirious with how good Aramis' bare skin felt against him. They hadn't done this last night. There were a lot of things, he was realizing, that they hadn't done last night. They'd barely scratched the surface of everything--talking, cuddling, _fucking_ \--that they could do. 

"Oh, you feel so good," Aramis sighed, writhing between them, like he didn't know which way to move. "Oh, _oh--"_ His moans kicked up an octave, and Athos hooked his chin over Aramis' shoulder and looked down over his body to see what Porthos was doing.

Porthos, he saw at once, had taken Aramis' already-insistent erection in hand, and was stroking him in time with the rocks of Athos' hips against his ass.

"Yeah, it's not so funny when it's you in the middle, is it," Porthos breathed against his forehead. "Drives you fucking crazy, huh?"

"Yes," Aramis gasped, reaching back behind him for Athos' hip and squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Athos, can you--a little faster, love, please?"

Athos groaned softly and let Aramis guide him into a faster, harder rhythm--his cock slid between their bodies, slick with sweat and his own precome, nestled in the cleft of Aramis' ass and leaving trails of wetness on his lower back--

It was fast and messy and his head was spinning, but all Aramis had to do was call him _love_ like that, in that breathless voice, and Athos was completely lost.

"Are you like this every morning?" Porthos asked breathlessly, watching in amazement as Aramis twisted and keened between them. "First thing, when you wake up, ready to go?"

"Pretty-- _ah_ \--pretty much," Aramis half-laughed, stuttering on a gasp in the middle. "When I'm h-happy."

Athos barely recognized his own rough sound of pleasure, and he pressed a panting, open-mouthed kiss to Aramis' shoulder. "You're happy this morning, then?"

Aramis' breath caught on a sigh, and he shivered between them. "I'm so happy," he moaned, throwing his head back as Athos kissed his neck. "Oh, I'm so happy, I thought I'd dreamed it at first--but then I opened my eyes, and it was all still real..."

Athos buried his face in Aramis' neck, overcome, and his hips started to lose their rhythm. It was still too early, his body was still waking up, and fuck if he was going to have anything _close_ to stamina while Aramis was saying things like that--

"Yeah," Porthos said, in that low tone that he'd used to such devastating effect the night before. "I thought it was all too good to be true, too. Then I woke up, felt you all pressed against me like this, and that--I'd never gotten it that vivid, that hot and warm and _perfect_ in my dreams, Aramis. I knew it had to really be you."

Aramis let out a soft _oh_ of pleasure, arching up needily for Porthos' kiss. Porthos gave it to him--kissed him slow and deep, pushing himself up on one elbow. At first Athos thought he was just trying to get better leverage--but then one of Porthos' hands snaked into Aramis' hair, and Athos realized he'd been freeing his other hand.

Because Athos may not have remembered until just this moment how Aramis had reacted the night before when they'd pulled his hair--but Porthos clearly had. 

Porthos brushed his fingers over Aramis' scalp in a caress, sending a startled shiver down all the skin pressed against Athos, before he twisted his hand into those dark curls and _tugged._

Aramis let out a strangled cry and came all over Porthos' hand. His face screwed up in ecstasy, his hips bucking wildly into Porthos' grip, and Athos really couldn't be expected _not_ to come himself, seeing that. As he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face to Aramis' neck again, he heard Porthos' surprised-sounding groan and Aramis' shuddering sigh.

He lifted his head and saw Porthos blinking dazedly down at Aramis' face, his chest heaving and his face a little stunned. Athos didn't bother hiding his smile--at least he wasn't the only one who'd come sooner than he'd expected. Aramis' eyes were closed, his jaw slack, and he looked like he was somewhere else entirely.

They lay there for a moment, letting their breathing even out. When Aramis' eyes finally blinked open, Athos and Porthos shared a slightly relieved look over his head. "Whoa," Aramis sighed, every bone in his body lax between them. "Wasn't expecting that."

"What?" Athos asked, kissing the soft space behind his ear.

Aramis sighed again, tilting his head so Athos would have better access. "You both came on me," he said, his words a little fuzzy around the edges. Athos' spent cock twitched against his ass again, and Aramis hummed softly. "Normally I don't really care, it's just come, but..." 

Athos swallowed, hard, and his hand came up almost unconsciously, to cover the dark hickey they'd both kissed and sucked and bitten into Aramis' neck last night.

"Yeah," Aramis sighed. He lifted his eyebrows slightly, his lips moving wordlessly for a moment before he let out his breath again. "So, um," he said, licking his lips. "We obviously didn't get into the laundry list of sexual stuff last night."

Athos and Porthos shared another look over his head. "No," Athos said slowly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm great," Aramis said--and he did feel it; every muscle in his body was relaxed and easy. "I think it's the--the marking thing. Never really cared before, but wow. Clearly, now. Yes."

"Well, as long as it was a good surprise," Porthos sighed, fitting himself even closer against Aramis' front. 

"Yes." Aramis' smile was small and secret. "Definitely."

"We're going to have to go over all of that," Athos said, stroking his hand back and forth over Aramis' shoulder. He wasn't sure why; he just wanted to be touching Aramis. He hadn't had the chance to--hadn't _let_ himself touch Aramis in so long. "The likes. The needs." He swallowed. _The triggers,_ he almost wanted to add, but he didn't want to bring the moment down.

"The ground rules," Porthos echoed, and he tapped his thumb idly on Aramis' waist. "Rule one," he suggested, glancing up at the two of them. "We gotta talk about everything from now on. No more hiding how we feel, no more bottling stuff up and letting it fester. We can't go down that road again. No more secrets."

His voice was low and gentle, but very serious, and Athos felt a curious combination of affection and nervousness in the pit of his stomach. -No more secrets.-

"That's a good rule one," Aramis said, resting his forehead against Porthos' and reaching behind him to hook Athos even closer. He sounded a little uncertain, though, and Athos wondered if he had some reservations, too. 

Porthos clearly saw their reticence on both of their faces, because his brow furrowed and he sighed. "Okay, you both look like you've got a problem with that."

"I don't," Athos said quickly. "Not about--not about us, not about that."

"No," Aramis agreed. His voice was very soft. "Not about us."

Porthos lifted his eyebrows, but he kept his mouth shut. He would wait for them to explain.

Athos swallowed, resting his cheek against the back of Aramis' neck. "It's like I said last night," he said finally, his stomach twisting with the return of that familiar dread. "It isn't that I don't... _want_ to be open with you both. I just don't know that I can be yet. Not without falling to pieces all over again." 

He didn't think he could tell them the whole story, not of everything. It'd break their hearts; it would change how they thought of him. He couldn't lose them. Not now. Not after last night. 

Aramis' hand slid up to cover Athos' on his shoulder, and he was grateful for the touch. "We all have things in our pasts we don't want to--things we _can't_ talk about," Aramis agreed quietly. "I love you two, I do, and you can believe that I will always tell you if something's going to affect the three of us, but." He took a steadying breath, pressing back into Athos' hold. "I relived one of the most horrible moments of my life last night. I can't do that for everything, all the time, just because we don't want to have any secrets left." 

Athos knew exactly how he felt. He kissed Aramis' cheek in silent agreement, and his heart eased a little at Aramis' murmur of wordless thanks.

Porthos' eyes softened slightly. "Okay," he said, reaching out so he could hook his arm around Athos' waist, too, holding them both against him and against each other. "Compromise? No _new_ secrets."

Aramis laughed aloud, and Athos' stomach unknotted itself. "I can do that," he said gratefully. "I promise, nothing from now on."

"That works for me, too," Aramis said, looking as relieved as Athos felt. "Anything from here on out, we share."

"Great," Porthos said, and he seemed relieved, too. "I just--I can't go through that kind of tension again, where no one's talking and everyone's upset, and--" He shook his head. "That was the fucking worst," he said, his voice dropping, and he looked so _miserable_ again, just at the memory. 

Athos' heart twisted in his chest. Porthos. They hadn't even asked, and he clearly hadn't felt able to _say_ that he needed them to talk. 

Aramis was clearly thinking the same thing, and he came to a conclusion faster than Athos did. "Rule two," Aramis said, and he stretched up to brush a kiss over Porthos' lips. "If we need something, we say it."

"Yes," Athos agreed, and Porthos' eyes were unbelievably soft when their gazes met.

Porthos smiled weakly at them, looking a little overwhelmed. "It'll be good for you two, too," he pointed out. "If you need to be alone, or need a hug, or whatever. We've all gotta get better at just asking for stuff."

Athos sighed, burying his face in Aramis' hair. "That's hard for me," he said, slightly glad for how Aramis' hair muffled the sound.

"I know," Aramis said soothingly, rubbing his hand over Athos'. "It'll get easier if we all do it."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, his lopsided smile back in place when Athos looked up. "Rule three?"

They were all silent for a moment, thinking.

Then it came to him, and Athos cleared his throat. "No more yelling," he said softly. He hated the person he'd become when they were fighting. He never wanted to be that awful... _thing_ again.

Aramis' hand squeezed his tightly, and Athos pressed his face to the back of Aramis' neck. 

"Except during sex," Aramis added after a moment, his voice wonderfully light. It startled a chuckle out of Athos, and Porthos grinned at the two of them. "Which reminds me," Aramis went on. "Rule four, just because one or two of us want to have sex doesn't mean all three of us have to."

Athos knew that one was for him. They'd been so gentle with his hangups the night before, so understanding. 

For a moment his throat was too tight with thanks to speak. He nodded wordlessly, and Porthos squeezed his hand. 

"I think that should go for everything," he said at last, when he felt certain he could speak without his voice cracking. "We can't always expect all three of us to always be up for the same things, all at the same time."

"Good point," Porthos said, grinning at them. "You two want to listen to that awful shit you call classic rock, you can be sure I'll be somewhere else."

Aramis shoved at his chest, grinning despite himself. "It's not our fault you have absolutely no respect for the classics--honestly, what kind of asshole doesn't like Journey--"

"Assholes with good taste," Porthos said, shoving right back. He looked happier than Athos had ever seen him--his eyes shone far brighter than they normally did when they were all just teasing each other, and he kept looking from Aramis' face to Athos', his smile as bright as his eyes.

"Yes?" Athos prompted him when their eyes connected again. "Some secret joke you'd like to share with us?"

"Yeah, I'm invoking rule one," Aramis teased, flattening his palms on Porthos' chest. "What are you smiling so wide about?"

"Poly negotiations," Porthos said promptly, sounding so completely _pleased,_ and Athos propped himself up on one elbow so he and Aramis could share an amused look. "No, seriously," Porthos laughed, "I'm actually fucking thrilled that we're having real, serious poly negotiations, right this fucking second."

"You wonderful romantic," Aramis drawled, but the deep kiss he stretched up to plant on Porthos' lips belied the humor in his tone.

Another curl of happiness unwound itself in the pit of Athos' stomach as he watched the two of them. He sort of understood Porthos' delight. It did, actually, feel good that they were lying here, talking about what they needed, what they _wanted,_ what would be okay to be apart for.

He cleared his throat when they didn't stop kissing after a few seconds, when Aramis had started to press closer to Porthos and Porthos' mouth slipped wider open. "Rule five," he prompted them, and they broke apart with hot looks and apologetic smiles sent his way.

"Rule five," Aramis agreed, settling between them. "Committed exclusivity."

Athos and Porthos' eyes met over his head. Porthos' eyes were wide and dark, and Athos wondered what Porthos saw on his own face.

"I see I've surprised you," Aramis drawled between them. Athos winced guiltily, and Aramis rolled over onto his back so he could look up at them both. He looked surprisingly patient. "I know I'm promiscuous, but--you know, I only ever did that because I love, well, falling in love." His face was soft, his eyes gentle with that look of _confession_ again. "And I love you both very much, so. That's that, for me."

"Me, too," Porthos agreed quietly, gazing down at Aramis, and Athos could hardly bear to look at his expression for too long. It was so full of emotion that it made his heart hurt.

"And me," he said, sliding his hand to rest over Aramis' heart. 

Aramis smiled up at the two of them, his eyes shining wetly when he looked up at Porthos' face. "Well," he said a little thickly. "Glad we don't need to discuss that much, then."

Porthos shook his head and leaned down to catch Aramis' lips in another deep, fervent kiss. Aramis' eyes were liquid and deep when Porthos finally broke away, and Athos watched the two of them with almost a hunger. He didn't want to miss a second of them being together--not for at least a week. Possibly longer. He had no idea how long it was going to take him to get this constant sense of wonder out of his system.

Aramis stretched luxuriously underneath them, back arching like a cat, then he sighed and his face twisted in a faint grimace. "I should clean up," he said, sounding like there was nothing he'd like to do less in the world. "Come gets itchy after a while."

"We should probably all clean up," Athos sighed, even as he fell back down onto his side in the sheets. Porthos grunted noncomittally and did the same thing.

Aramis beamed at the two of them. "You'll be here when I get back, then?"

Athos nodded, running his hand down the center line of Aramis' body, just to feel him again, just to hear him hum with satisfaction. Touching was something else he was going to take a long time to be sated with--or, if he were honest with himself, probably never sated, but at least at acceptable public levels of demonstrativeness.

Porthos gave a low chuckle, and Athos cocked an eyebrow at him. He smiled and shook his head, his hand moving out to cover Athos'. "I just thought, y'know. It's gonna take me at least a month to stop touching you two every chance I get."

Athos' heart literally melted in his chest. There was no other way to explain the spreading sensation of disgustingly gooey warmth behind his ribs. "I was just thinking the same thing," he said, well aware that his voice had gone soft and with no idea of how to make it _not_ be like that. 

"Are you sure you're not psychic?" Aramis said, smiling up at Porthos. Athos flashed him a startled look, and Aramis shifted his grin to Athos. "What? Haven't you noticed he's always just--ready to say whatever you're thinking?"

There was nothing Athos could do but kiss him for that, swallowing Aramis' soft laughter. "Yes," he said finally, the warmth in his chest radiating down into his belly. "I'd despaired of anyone else ever understanding my struggle."

Aramis batted his eyelashes at him, and Porthos laughed, sounding embarrassed, beside them. "If you two self-absorbed idiots want to call being a little aware of the people around you -psychic---"

"Oh, hush," Aramis said, stretching up to press a kiss to Porthos' lips. He slid his mouth slowly against Porthos' for a long moment, then sighed and broke away. "I need to get out of this bed before I get any filthier," he said, and climbed over Porthos. 

Athos slid instantly into the warm spot he'd vacated, curling up against Porthos with a sigh of contentment, and Porthos wrapped Athos in his arms with absolutely no hesitation, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. "Good morning," he murmured, his deep voice musical.

Athos twisted around and reached up for Porthos' cheek, craving a more serious kiss, and Porthos obliged wholeheartedly. 

It felt different, he thought as Porthos' lips moved over his with an unbelievably enticing combination of tenderness and purpose. Different-good, not different-bad. There wasn't that bittersweet wistfulness they'd had before--where it was good, but where they weren't sure they wanted that to be all that it was, forever. There wasn't that furtiveness, that constant sense of uncertainty--of lying.

Aramis had paused in his slow, sleepy search for clothing to watch them kiss, Athos noticed when they broke apart, and his wanting sigh made them both smile.

"You're the one who said he didn't want to get any filthier," Porthos reminded him. "We're just lying here."

"Tease," Aramis grumbled, rummaging through the piles of clothing. "Athos, I'm taking your boxers."

A pleasantly possessive affection rolled through Athos' chest like thunder, and he stretched out on Porthos' chest. "That's fine," he said, resting his cheek on the soft space between Porthos' collarbone and shoulder.

"And Porthos, I can't find my shirt, I'm taking yours."

"You two are gonna leave me without any shirts at all," Porthos said. He sounded absolutely delighted by the prospect, and Aramis flashed him a grin.

"I'd like to think we perform a public service," Athos drawled.

Porthos nudged playfully at his shoulder. "I'll just have to steal them back." 

"At least pretend to be irritated," Aramis laughed, pulling Porthos' shirt on over his head. "Just a little."

"Nope," Porthos said, beaming at him. There was a proprietary gleam to his eyes, too. "Go, you'll be back faster the sooner you leave."

Aramis heaved a theatrical sigh and picked his way across the mess of the floor to the door. "Romance is _dead,"_ he said dramatically as he yanked it open--but the last they saw of him was his quicksilver smile and the adoring look in his brown eyes as he looked back at them.

The door swung slowly shut behind him, and Athos let his breath out in a slow exhale, letting himself sink down into Porthos' shoulder.

"Can you believe it?" Porthos asked, his smile plain in his voice.

Athos shook his head, his own tiny smile spreading across his face. "Barely."

Porthos' chest rumbled with a laugh that shook Athos' whole body, and his arms came around him and _squeezed._

Athos held on, held him back as tightly as he could, and let Porthos' joy flow into him like a wave. "I'm not still asleep, am I?" he said softly into Porthos' neck. "I won't wake up, and you'll both be gone?"

Porthos' hand slid down and pinched his ass, and Athos let out an incredibly undignified sound between a yelp and a groan. _"Porthos."_

"I'd apologize, but I can feel your cock taking an interest again, so."

Athos pinched him back, catching him on the ribs. Porthos' body gave a wriggling jerk beneath him, and he held Athos even tighter, laughing out loud. 

The wiggling and tight squeezing did absolutely nothing to dissuade Athos' cock from the idea that it was about to be the center of attention again. Athos would be a little embarrassed at how clearly he was responding, but almost instantly he felt Porthos' cock reawakening against his thigh and decided that shame was overrated. Porthos' hand slid down again, caressing instead of pinching this time, and Athos looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. 

Porthos' face was full of that same _wonder_ Athos had felt since they woke up, and Athos' scorching lust dimmed slightly to a steadier, brighter flame. 

"I can't believe I get to have you both," Porthos said, his voice slightly hushed. "I can't believe we're this lucky."

Athos swallowed, and he propped himself up on his elbow slightly to reach up and touch Porthos' face. "I know," he said, hoping Porthos' famous intuition would read everything he meant by that. _I feel the same way. I'm half-expecting to wake up every second. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm terrified you'll both come to your senses._

_I'll love you until I stop breathing._

At least something must have gotten through to his eyes, because Porthos' smile grew wider, softer. "I love you, too," he said, and pulled Athos up his body to kiss him.

Athos melted against him, his jaw falling slack and his heart full to bursting, and he was dizzy, delirious with happiness and desire.

It got heated in approximately no time at all. They were grinding slowly against each other, foreheads pressed together and hazy gazes locked, when the door swung open again. "Athos, my love, do you-- _oh."_

Athos nearly toppled off Porthos in the face of his residual _oh shit hide_ reflex. Porthos caught him, held him steady to his chest, and grinned up at the door. "Yes, darling?"

Oh, right. They didn't have to hide from Aramis anymore. Athos twisted his head around to give a somewhat shamefaced smile, and Aramis beamed back as he closed the door behind him. "Sorry. What, Aramis?"

"It can wait," Aramis said, his eyes fixing on Athos and Porthos' nakedness as he stripped off the borrowed shirt and boxers again. "But I was just going to ask--did anybody send you an email or something?"

Athos frowned at him. "No, why?"

Aramis shrugged, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "It's silent as the grave out there and the bathroom's totally dry."

Porthos blinked, glancing out the window. "What time is it? 'S it noon yet?"

"Quarter til." Aramis shrugged. "But, right? People are usually late-showering just before noon on a Sunday."

"Oh," Athos said, suddenly remembering, and grabbed for his phone where it lay discarded on the mattress.

"Hmm?" Aramis asked, as he scooted forward on the mattress to drape himself over Athos' back. "Do you mean there's a reason beyond us driving everyone away with our loud sex? I was thinking they'd emailed you and walked out en masse."

Athos flushed horribly--oh, fuck, they probably _had_ been insanely loud--and cleared his throat. "Well, there may be that, but also..." He thumbed open his email and scrolled to the last message he'd sent to the whole floor. He scanned it, making sure it was the right one, then tapped the online document attached.

One glance confirmed his suspicions, and a small bubble of pleased surprise swelled in his chest. "I think we're the only ones here."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a startled look, and Porthos sat up slightly. "What?"

"It's Thanksgiving break, remember?" Athos said, scrolling more carefully through the list to double-check. "I asked everyone to tell me if they were going home or staying on the floor. Grayson's staying in Baudelaire with his girlfriend, Micah's in Delacroix, and everyone else but us went home for the whole week."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Aramis huffed out a delighted laugh of surprise, and his arms came up to encircle Athos' chest. Athos watched Porthos' smile grow steadily wider on his face, and he sat up straighter, tugging Athos more fully into his lap, hooking Aramis closer with an ankle as well. "Are you telling me," he began, and his palms, resting on Athos' calves, slid slowly up his thighs. "That we've got the whole fucking floor to ourselves for a week?"

Athos nodded slowly, setting his phone aside. "Seems so."

"No one else here." Porthos' eyes were dark. "Don't have to worry about appearances, or what anybody thinks?"

Athos shook his head.

He shivered suddenly as Aramis' breath hit the top of his neck--a second before Aramis' lips did. "Or noise?" Aramis asked, his voice low as he kissed the top of Athos' spine. "Or nudity?"

Athos shuddered at the kiss--then remembered Aramis had asked him a question, and slowly shook his head. "No. It's just us until people start coming back next Saturday."

"And you didn't mention this _why?"_ Aramis murmured, nipping lightly at Athos' neck in reprimand.

All Athos' breath left his body in a rush, and he arched helplessly back into Aramis' touch. "I had _so many other_ things on my mind, Aramis."

"I forgive you," Aramis murmured, licking like a cat at the place he'd just nibbled. Athos actually _whimpered,_ or something very close to it, and he could feel Aramis' smile against his skin--even as he could see Porthos smirking at them, as his hands slid further up until his fingertips pressed against Athos' hipbones. Athos tried very hard not to think about how those hands were bracketing his cock--his very awake cock, curving up from between his legs just from the two of them being so close, being all over him like this.

He felt surrounded, enclosed. Safe.

"Touch me," he gasped, his hips twitching up into Porthos' touch. "Please."

"Oh, I was hoping you'd say that," Porthos said, his teeth flashing in a grin, and he spread his hands, broad fingers stretching to encircle his hipbones, thumbs pressed in at the creases of his thighs and hips--and it wasn't enough. 

Athos gritted his teeth together, pressing up into Porthos' hands. "That--I didn't mean-- _Porthos_ \--"

Aramis clucked his tongue, his arms sliding forward to encircle Athos' body as he settled behind Athos, between Porthos' legs. "Porthos, stop teasing him."

"I'm admiring the view," Porthos shot back, looking up at the two of them with wicked eyes. 

Aramis nibbled lightly at Athos' neck again and his whole body jumped into the touch. "Well, in that case," Aramis murmured, and slid his hands down Athos' abs.

Athos' body convulsed as Aramis wrapped a hand around his cock, as Aramis murmured _shh_ against his neck. "You're so tense, sweetheart," Aramis said, his gentle voice warm with laughter. "It's all right, relax."

"You try to relax while you're doing _that,"_ Athos managed to say. Aramis was sliding his hand up and down, swiping his thumb over the head and spreading slickness around with each stroke--slowly, almost painfully slowly.

"I frequently do, actually," Aramis said, and Athos could feel the accompanying smile against his skin. His cock jerked at the thought--Aramis, touching himself. Athos wanted to see that. Maybe he'd ask him for it; maybe Aramis would let them watch him get himself off.

His cock twitched again, and Porthos let out a rough sigh as all three of them watched precome bead at the slit of Athos' cock. "You that close already?"

"It's not my fault," Athos ground out, bracing himself on Porthos' shoulder with one hand as he stopped trying to fight the shudder of his hips into Aramis' grip. "See how long _you_ last."

"Maybe later," Porthos said, and he slid one of his hands from Athos' hip to his own cock, laying thick across his stomach. Athos' eyes zeroed in on it, feeling his own mouth fall open as Porthos jerked lazily at himself. "You mind that I'm watching this?" he asked abruptly. When Athos glanced up at his face, he saw that Porthos looked a little uncertain, his hand stilling as he waited for Athos' response.

Athos had to take two very deep gulps of air before responding, trying to control the sentence that jumped immediately to his lips. The words were bursting at his throat, and while he wasn't quite sure he was ready to say them, he didn't think he could keep them in without breaking something. "I think I'm fine with you both doing whatever you want with me," he said in a rush.

Porthos let out an unsteady breath, and Athos shivered as he watched Porthos' hand slide down to grip tightly at the base of his own cock. Aramis let out a shaky _huh_ against the top of Athos' spine, and his fingers tightened, his hand speeding up. Athos arched up into him with a strangled sound, ruthlessly clamping down on the moan that he could feel building up in the pit of his chest.

"Let it out," Aramis breathed against his neck, his other hand coming up to spread flat over Athos' breastbone, just where Athos could feel the pitiful, shuddering sounds trying to start. "Nobody's here, we can be as loud as we want."

"Oh, shit," Athos choked, the thought sending a blast of heat through his limbs--they could cry out, they could _scream,_ he could hear Aramis howling their names to the ceiling-- His gazed fixed desperately on Porthos', and Porthos was holding the base of his own cock tightly, watching the two of them with clenched teeth and bated breath.

"Don't hold yourself back," Aramis said, his breath hot on the back of Athos' neck as his hand slid squeezing and twisting up and down Athos' cock. "We may never get this chance again, darling, and I want to hear you."

A low moan pushed its way out of Athos' chest, and Aramis rewarded him with a wet, sucking kiss just behind the point of his jaw. "Good, that's so good, Athos," he said, his voice growing hoarse. "Come on, baby, let me hear you."

Athos clutched desperately at Porthos' shoulder with his left hand, reaching wildly back for Aramis with his right--he needed to be touching him, needed to hold onto him. Helpless sounds fell from his open, panting mouth with each stroke of Aramis' hand, each twist pushing another moan from his chest.

"Louder," Aramis breathed against his neck, and he could feel Aramis' hips circling in tiny motions, as he felt the slick heat of Aramis' cock against the small of his back. Aramis' fingertips, spread wide over his breastbone, dug into his chest, like he wanted to pull Athos' sounds from him. "Louder, Athos," and Aramis sounded like he was almost pleading. "I've wanted to hear you like this for so long--"

And Athos tried to rein in the sweeping hot-cold rush he felt at that, but it was too late, it was too _good_ to hear Aramis say that to him. He bucked helplessly into Aramis' grip and his blood roared in his ears, and he felt Aramis' teeth close on his earlobe and _oh fuck fuck fuck_ he was coming--

His throat felt raw as his head fell back onto Aramis' shoulder. Had he screamed? Was he still yelling? He couldn't feel his fingertips and his cock still pulsed weakly in Aramis' hand--oh, oh, God, he could hear himself, hear the wordless half-cries he couldn't keep back, because Aramis had asked, Aramis wanted them.

"Beautiful," Aramis gasped, and he could feel Aramis' hips thrusting helplessly into his back. "Beautiful, that's _beautiful,_ Athos--" His voice broke on Athos' name, and Athos felt his orgasm give another spasm of pleasure when he felt Aramis' come on his back.

"God, you two are fucking gorgeous," Porthos gasped, his face screwed up in concentration as he fought back his own orgasm. "I don't--I want this to last but I can't--"

Hazy and dazed from how hard and how quickly he'd come, Athos stared down at him. Porthos was incredible. He was too much. He was fucking _incredible._ Athos wanted to do so much for him--to him.

He could blame it on the orgasm, how he was still twitching through aftershocks, or on the sucking, slack-jawed kisses Aramis was pressing along the tops of his shoulders--but. But really, he wanted to.

"Can I blow you?" he asked Porthos, his voice rough from the way he'd been shouting. "I want to." 

Porthos stared up at him, like Athos had just offered him the moon on a stick, and Aramis exhaled shakily against Athos' back. "You--" Porthos' voice cracked, and he had to swallow. "Athos, you've never done that before, have you?"

Athos twisted his head back, seeking Aramis, and when Aramis' head came up in response, he rubbed his cheek against Aramis. "Teach me?" he asked, feeling loose-limbed and sticky and somehow invincible. "You did so well last night, I want to know how to make you two feel that good--"

"Oh, Jesus," Aramis swore fervently, and he caught Athos in a fierce kiss. "Yes, absolutely, yes, I--Porthos?"

Porthos nodded helplessly, staring up at the two of them with drowning-dark eyes. "Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, yes, please."

Nerves and anticipation and _want_ twisted in the pit of Athos' stomach as Aramis helped him down between Porthos' legs. Aramis' hands moved over and through Athos' hair, and he kept up a steady litany of instructions and praise as Athos settled down. "Get comfortable, get your head in a good position. That's it. Doesn't he look amazing like this?"

"Yes," Athos gasped, looking desperately up at Porthos' face. "Yes, he does." He'd just come and he still felt hot and shivery all over--he wanted Porthos to come, too, he wanted him to feel this good, too--again, all over again; how long had it been since they woke up and had Aramis between them? An hour? Less? Was this how it was going to be _all the time?_

"It's like kissing," Aramis told him, stroking his hair, and Athos swayed forward towards Porthos' cock, feeling drunk on them both already. "You don't shove your tongue down someone's throat first thing when you kiss them. You hold their hand first, right?"

Athos nodded, shifting onto one elbow so he could free his hand.

"That's right," Aramis said, a smile in his voice. "Touch him first."

Porthos' head fell back on a groan as Athos wrapped his hand around Porthos' cock. He was so _hot,_ and his hips twitched up into Athos' hold. Athos slid his hand up and down a few times, getting used to the weight of it, the thickness. It was so different from his own. Was this really the first time he'd touched Porthos? He wondered how Aramis would feel. Next time, maybe. (Maybe? _Definitely.)_

"Listen to him," Aramis purred in his ear. "Hear him catch his breath? That's you. You're doing that."

"We both are," Athos said, his tongue thick in his mouth, because he knew Porthos, and he knew exactly what Aramis whispering filthy instructions in Athos' ear would do to him.

"Yeah," Porthos gasped, and he didn't bother trying not to push up into Athos' grip this time. "Yeah, you both are."

"Giving the full show." Aramis' laugh was delicious, and Athos' eyes fell half-shut at the shiver it sent down his own spine. "That's so good, Athos. Now you can use your mouth. But go slow. Kiss him, keep using your hand. Get used to how he feels, how he tastes."

Aramis' voice was low and honeyed, and he pressed all along Athos' side, anchoring him. It was easy, with his voice pouring smooth into Athos' ear, to lean forward and press a feather-light kiss to the base of Porthos' cock. Porthos sucked his breath in through his teeth, and, emboldened, Athos pressed another, steadier kiss to his shaft.

"That's it," Aramis murmured. "See, it's about listening to him, seeing what he likes. I know for me, knowing that I can do that for him--that's what makes me feel good, too. How do you feel?"

"Good," Athos managed to say between kisses, his voice feeling stuck in his chest again. He felt better than good--he felt _powerful,_ he felt wanted. He felt a resonating warmth all through his limbs, thrumming stronger each time Porthos caught his breath or held back a sound. "Good," he tried again, feeling like they deserved more than just that. "Just like you said."

"Mm-hmm." Aramis' fingertips caressed his head underneath the wild mess of his hair. "He's doing so well, isn't he, Porthos?"

"He's perfect," Porthos choked, shaking, hands held fast at his sides. "You're doing perfect, babe."

Pleasure slid slow and rich down Athos' spine, and he moved without thinking to press a wet kiss to the head of Porthos' cock. Porthos swore vehemently, his cock jerked in Athos' grasp, and a salty-bitter burst of flavor slipped through Athos' lips. Precome, he realized with a heady sense of satisfaction--he was doing this, _he_ was--and he darted out his tongue to lick it up. It didn't taste as bad as everyone had always made him think. Maybe it was the lingering orgasm haze fucking with him, but in the moment, it tasted pretty good. 

Porthos choked out a strangled groan, and Aramis hummed happily in Athos' ear. "Look at you, you're a natural," he said, and Athos knew that sound of desire in his voice, now. 

Athos made a wordless sound of thanks, growing more sure with his motions as he kissed and licked his way up and down Porthos' cock, around the head--trying to remember what _he_ liked, what he'd seen Aramis do. He swirled his tongue around the head, careful little laps at the ridge around the head, at the underside, until Porthos was letting out a steady stream of curses and his hands were fisting in the bedsheets at either side of his hips.

This was perfect for him. He didn't have to _talk,_ he didn't have to try to put words to feelings he couldn't name. He could show Porthos like this. It didn't matter that he felt tongue-tied and helpless to describe everything he felt. He could do it this way.

"Feeling good?" Aramis murmured, both of his hands stroking up and down Athos' back. "Relaxed?" 

"Yes," Athos gasped, pausing just long enough to say the word. He didn't want to stop--he was caught up in it, he understood why Aramis enjoyed this so much. "Can I get my mouth around him now?"

"Go ahead," Aramis said, sounding a little breathless, and Athos felt him drop a kiss between Athos' shoulderblades. "Go ahead, just the tip. Careful with your teeth, take it slow."

"I know," Athos reminded him, pushing forward and arching up. Aramis' breathy laugh and Porthos' strangled sigh were music to his ears as he finally sucked just the tip of Porthos' cock into his mouth.

"That's perfect," Aramis sighed, his breath ruffling Athos' hair. "Oh, that's perfect, Athos."

It _was_ like being drunk, he thought dizzily, stretching his jaw as he bobbed his head and listening to Porthos gasp his name. Only better, because he could _remember_ all of this--he had the same all-over warm buzz, the same detached out-of-body feeling, but his senses were full of Porthos and Aramis, Porthos' taste and scent and heat and Aramis' voice--

Porthos needed to be touching him. Aramis was touching him, but Porthos wasn't. He didn't want to pull off, because that would mean stopping, but-- 

He made a wordless pleading sound, and his eyes flashed up Porthos' body to meet his gaze. Pure lust spiked in his belly when their eyes met.

Porthos was staring down at him, his jaw slack and his face and chest flushed and drenched in sweat, and Athos couldn't hold back the moan of utter fucking admiration that vibrated up from his chest. Porthos sucked in a breath, all his stomach muscles tensing, and Athos made another pleading sound, begging with his eyes. He wouldn't be able to say it out loud, but he could ask like this-- _Touch me, please, touch me, I need your hands on me._

Aramis' hand landed in his hair again, and Athos' eyelashes fluttered as he moaned at the contact. "What do you need, sweetheart?" Aramis asked him, stroking his scalp. "You're doing so well, what do you need from us?"

Athos pushed up into Aramis' touch, his eyes fixed on Porthos, and--there was no other word for it--whined again. It _was_ whining, he just needed to admit it--he was whining and his lips were dripping spit and his jaw ached but he _wanted_ it, he knew what Aramis had meant now, he was _gagging_ for it. Porthos was perfect and he was being so gentle with Athos, he wasn't pushing up into him or pushing him down. He was just lying there, and being so still and gentle, and Athos needed Porthos to be touching him, always, _always._

"Oh," Aramis sighed in understanding, and his hand slid back to Athos' neck--a reassuring weight, anchoring Athos to him. "Porthos, touch him."

"Oh, thank _fuck,"_ Porthos choked, and his hands came up to thread into Athos' hair where Aramis' had been just a moment later.

Every inch of Athos' skin lit up with how good that felt. He moaned again, closing his lips and sucking hard in thanks, and Porthos' hands smoothed over his hair, his head--not tugging, or pushing, but just _there._

"Oh, fuck, you feel so good, babe," Porthos gasped. It was like a dam had been broken by their eyes meeting, and the words just poured out of Porthos in a wrecked, rough tone that sent hot shivers all over Athos' body. "Aramis is right, you're a fucking natural, I can't believe you've never--I can't believe you're _giving_ me this--"

Athos moaned, his jaw falling looser on its own, and he could take Porthos a little deeper, could feel the head of his cock brushing the roof of his mouth, and Porthos' hands tightened in his hair.

"Are you close?" Aramis asked him, stroking Porthos' thigh with one hand. Porthos gritted his teeth and nodded, and Athos' heart pounded in his chest. He was going to do this, he was going to make Porthos come, just like this. 

"Pull back a little," Aramis murmured, tugging up on Athos' shoulders. Athos swatted him away with his free hand, and Aramis laughed. He pushed an affectionate hand the wrong way through the hair at the nape of Athos' neck and brushed a kiss over his spine. "Your enthusiasm's admirable, sweetheart, but choking ruins the mood and swallowing's lesson two."

Athos drew back just enough to gasp, "Shut up, Aramis." He sucked in a breath and looked up Porthos' body to meet those dark, hazy eyes again. "Porthos, come in my mouth," he ordered him, and ducked his head to suck the tip of Porthos' cock back between his lips.

Porthos arched back with a broken sound, his hands scrambling to find a hold on Athos' shoulders (so he wasn't pulling his hair, Athos realized, and gave him an extra-hard suck for that). "Shit," he gasped. "Shit, shit, shit, Athos, I can't--"

Athos tightened his hand and sped up his strokes, keeping his mouth just on the head, as Porthos' hips started to jerk up reflexively into his strokes. It wasn't too much, he could take it, and he heard Aramis laughing softly as blood started to rush in his ears.

This was perfect. It was _perfect._ He didn't have to think, didn't have to talk or make any choices besides where to put his hands or mouth next--he didn't have to do anything but make Porthos feel good. 

It was so...relaxing.

"Athos," Porthos managed to say. _"Athos."_

He hummed wordlessly, encouraging him, and Porthos' whole body shuddered as he came in Athos' mouth.

Athos flooded hot and cold all over, and his mind went so wonderfully blank on endorphins that for a moment he wondered if he'd come again. It was possible. He'd never felt quite like this--giving someone else pleasure just because he wanted to, not because he was terrified they'd leave him if he didn't.

He swallowed, a few times, licking slowly around Porthos' cock to clean up the traces of come, and it wasn't until he felt Porthos softening in his mouth that he slowly drew back. Porthos' hand caressed the base of his head, and Athos sighed. 

He rested his head on Porthos' thigh and closed his eyes, letting their hands move over him.

"Thank you," Porthos sighed. "Thank you so much, babe, that was phenomenal."

Athos licked his lips. "Any time," he said, his voice hoarse. "Practice makes perfect, after all."

"A-plus for your first time," Aramis said, sliding down to spoon up behind Athos. He didn't stop touching Athos, not for a second, and Athos was so fucking grateful.

"You were right," he murmured. It was easier, now. "You were right, it feels good."

"It does," Aramis said softly, his hands tracing patterns on Athos' arm.

"I can just...switch off." Athos sighed as he felt Porthos' hands carding through his hair, caressing his jaw, his cheek. "My head goes so fast sometimes, it never wants to stop." He couldn't quite believe he was saying this--the words were just there, coming so easily, and both Aramis and Porthos were quiet, letting him talk. "But like that, I--I didn't have to think about anything else. Just about you two, and I didn't have to guess, I didn't have to worry, you both let me know I was doing well. And knowing I was doing something right just...felt good."

Aramis kissed his shoulder, and Porthos' fingers traced his lips. "I never really guessed how--switching off, I guess, would be so relaxing for you," Porthos said quietly. "Especially after yesterday, having to hold it together like that." 

Athos sighed and nodded, reaching down and twining his fingers through Aramis'. 

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," Aramis whispered then, and something else felt like it released in Athos' chest. "I just wanted to get out of my head, forget how miserable I was. I didn't even realize I was doing it."

"I love you," Porthos said softly, like that was all that needed to be said, for him. Aramis gave a suspiciously tearful sniff. 

Athos squeezed his hand. Still floating on endorphins, it was easier to say. "You cried enough yesterday, Aramis," he said quietly. "Don't cry."

Aramis sniffed again. "Too late," he said, and pressed his cheek to Athos' shoulder. 

Athos felt too boneless to turn around, so he kept his fingers tight on Aramis' instead. "I heard you crying in the shower," he whispered, and Aramis stilled against him. "I came up looking for you, and I heard you. And--I didn't know what to do, and then Treville called, and I left, Aramis. I'm sorry."

Aramis pressed his face into the back of Athos' neck, and he could feel the hot wetness of tears. "I was just so afraid," he whispered. "I woke up with you, and I was so happy--and then I really woke up, and remembered why I shouldn't be. And then I let you leave, and go back to Porthos, and." He drew a shuddering breath. "Well, I thought you'd be better off without me, but...I just missed you both so much." 

Athos lifted their joined hands to his mouth and kissed Aramis' knuckles. "I should have stayed," he said. 

"I wouldn't have let you comfort me if you had," Aramis whispered. "I was so hopeless, Athos, I just didn't know what to do."

"But not anymore," Porthos said, and his voice warmed Athos through like sunlight. "We'll come to each other now, yeah? No more secrets and sadness and hiding broken hearts." He spoke so firmly, with so much sureness, and it felt like solid ground, establishing itself under Athos' feet. 

Athos loved him so much. "Yeah," he said softly. 

"Yeah," Aramis echoed, and he kissed Athos' shoulder again. 

They lay silent, holding each other, for a long time. Then Porthos tapped Athos on the ear, and he lifted his head to look up at him. 

"Much as I'm enjoying you both down there," Porthos said, and his lips curved in that lopsided smile Athos adored. "You two wanna shower?"

"Yes," Aramis said decisively, and he stretched slightly, pressing himself against Athos. "Athos, the 'two feet in the shower' rule is mostly so you don't unwittingly involve innocent bystanders in your sex, right?"

Athos snorted, turning his face back against Porthos' thigh. "And since we're alone in the dorm, you want to argue that it's meaningless."

"Well, yes."

Athos smiled despite himself. "Are you sure the three of us can even fit in one shower, Aramis?"

"We can find out," Porthos said, his smile plain in his voice.

"When I come up in front of the Res Life board for breaking every rule in the book," Athos said dryly, his heart singing in his chest, "I am blaming the two of you."

"So..." Aramis smiled against his skin "That's a yes, then?"

Athos kicked him. "That's a 'get off me so we can get out of this bed before I change my mind.'"

"Yes, _sir,"_ Aramis laughed, and pulled away. 

They only bothered with wrapping towels around their waists, and Aramis let his slip dangerously low, inviting Porthos to shamelessly grope his ass on the way to the bathroom. Athos couldn't blame them. Now that they knew they could, it was so hard to stop touching each other. 

The shower was crowded at first, with all three of them pressed together and jockeying for the warmth of the spray. "Turns," Porthos said firmly, and pushed Aramis under the water with little ceremony. Aramis sighed with pleasure--a sigh that lowered to a groan when Porthos picked up the shampoo and started working it into his hair. 

They were close enough, and the shower stall was narrow enough, that the two not in the direct spray were still warm. As Athos spread soapy hands over Aramis' torso, he honestly couldn't think of anything more comfortable. Aramis stood with his eyes closed, sighing happily as Porthos washed his hair and Athos washed his chest. It was gorgeous. They looked so good together; they fit so well.

"This is so nice," Aramis said, his smile blissful, as Porthos maneuvered him into the spray to rinse his hair. 

"Yes," Athos said, and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the shower when Porthos smiled at him. 

If someone had told him a week ago--a month ago, years ago--that this morning would be real, Athos would have laughed in their faces. He still couldn't quite believe that it was all happening, that it would last--that he wouldn't fail at being a boyfriend so spectacularly that they'd leave him to go off at their own. 

But as he took his turn under the water, as Aramis rubbed shampoo into his hair and Porthos ran the soapy washcloth over his chest and arms, Athos could believe the devotion in their hands. They both touched him so gently, so carefully, as carefully as he touched him, as they touched each other.

At least for now, they were all trying so hard, being so careful. They all were tired of hurting each other.

"You're spending a lot of time on me," Porthos murmured, his hands drifting over Athos' shoulders as he meticulously washed every inch of Porthos' body. "I'm gonna get a complex or something, being the center of all this attention."

Athos flashed a half-smile up at him, sharing an amused look with Aramis over his shoulder.

"He just doesn't know," Aramis mock-sighed, his hands moving steadily over Porthos' back. 

Porthos rolled his eyes. "If this is you two still trying to--I dunno, make it up to me, or whatever--"

"We're showing you how much we love you," Aramis cut him off, reaching around to cover Porthos' mouth with a soapy hand. "Just let us."

Porthos looked like he dearly would have loved to bite Aramis' fingers, but wasn't looking forward to a mouthful of soap. Athos smirked at him and pushed him back under the water. When Aramis finally moved his hand, Porthos ducked forward and pressed a kiss to Athos' lips.

"That's a thanks for earlier," he said, and Athos flushed. Now that he was over the endorphin rush, he couldn't quite believe that he'd been that shameless. Still. He hadn't been lying--it was one of the best feelings he'd had in a while. 

Second only to the bone-deep satisfaction of just being with them, like this. They moved easily around each other, even in the cramped little shower. They weren't avoiding each other anymore; they'd found their old rhythm. They'd just made it better.

Much to Athos' surprise, they managed not to fuck in the shower. Some soft, sappy kisses were exchanged, and doe-eyed looks flew fast and thick, but better judgment--at last--reigned, and they dried off with minimal groping.

Aramis was massaging Porthos' hair oil into his curls in front of the bathroom mirror ("What is this _made_ of, I can't believe how delicious it smells--" "Don't fucking lick it, it's expensive as shit and I can only get it at the barber shop") when Athos abruptly realized how hungry he was.

"Fuck," he said aloud, and they both looked at him. "Sorry, but. What time did we figure it was?"

Aramis shrugged. "Probably one by now."

"Is the dining hall open?"

Porthos and Aramis exchanged startled glances in the mirror. "Oh," Aramis said with surprise, his brow creasing. "Oh, fuck, you're right, I'm starving."

The dining hall was, mercifully, open, and Athos thanked the gods of resident life that their dining hall wasn't the one closing for Thanksgiving break. He loved Porthos and Aramis, but grocery store runs with them almost always ended with four boxes of Pop-Tarts and not much else. 

Just as mercifully, the dining hall was not _crowded,_ exactly--there were scattered single tables of people, eating what looked like similarly late brunches and all thankfully too hungover-looking to talk to the three of them.

There was a peculiar privacy to having your own table in a mostly-empty dining hall, Athos thought as the three of them crowded together at one of the small square tables against the wall. They were really only intended for two, but Porthos dragged over a chair, squeezed it onto the third empty side, and stared pointedly at Aramis until he took the hint.

"How long are you going to keep putting me in the middle?" Aramis laughed as he sat down. His eyes were soft, though, and Athos knew he didn't really mind.

"Until we're over missing you," Porthos said, giving him a _really?_ look. "We haven't really seen you in three weeks."

"And at any rate, I cannot believe you would ever object to being in the middle, Aramis," Athos said, tangling his leg with Aramis' under the table.

Aramis' sudden, deep blush was simultaneously sweetly endearing and incredibly arousing, once Athos realized _why_ he was blushing so hard. 

"Oh," he said, his throat closing on a strange mix of desire and nerves. "That--wasn't intended to be innuendo, sorry--"

"Don't apologize." Aramis cleared his throat and looked down at his plate of pasta, still blushing. "We probably do need to have the sex conversation, though, if we don't want to keep tripping over that stuff."

"I can't think of a better place to have it," Athos drawled, looking around at the sterile, blandly innocent surroundings of the dining hall.

"Here's probably better," Porthos pointed out. "The unsexiest surroundings possible, if we wanna make sure we stay on topic." The flash of his smile steadied Athos' nerves, and he managed a small smile in return. 

"I promise I'm not actually afraid of sex," Athos tried to joke, staring down at his own plate. "It's all just--a lot, for me."

"If we're going too fast," Aramis began, and Athos could hear the concern in his voice. 

"No," he cut him off, looking up. Aramis looked worried--upset?--and Athos made himself relax, told himself to calm down and smile. "It's not too fast," he said again, more softly. "I just..."

Aramis reached over and wordlessly took his hand. Athos held onto it, and he felt Porthos' leg press up against his under the table. 

How could the two of them do this to him, every time? Make him feel so secure, make it easy for the words to come that never had before?

"You both know," he tried again, his voice as loud as he could bear to have it, "you've known for years, how I am. I can't let myself _have_ anything because I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"We know," Porthos said, and when Athos dared a glance up to him, he found Porthos smiling steadily at him. "And you're probably right to," Porthos went on, reaching across the table to cover their hands with his. "But, Athos, that other shoe? It's gonna be other people's opinions, or needing to rework the team dynamics, or having to tell your parents. It's not gonna be the two of us leaving you."

"Of course it won't be," Aramis said, his voice steady. "Athos, there's nothing you could do to make us tired of you, or make us leave you."

Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

"You're doing fine," Porthos said, his voice so firm that Athos couldn't help but believe him. Porthos was his solid ground; he always was. "I know you think you're always fucking up, but really, babe, that's just baseline normal human shit."

Aramis laughed softly, and even without seeing him, Athos could envision the playful, gentle grin on on his face. "I certainly have no objections to anything so far."

"Me, neither," Porthos said, his voice unmistakably hot, and Athos could practically see him wiggling his eyebrows at Aramis.

"Stop flirting over my head," he said automatically, and opened his eyes to find them smiling at each other.

"Well, flirt back, then," Aramis said without missing a beat, and squeezed his hand. Athos found it easier to return the smile this time, and Aramis' grin widened. 

He shifted forward a little in his chair, then, closer to Athos, and rested his other hand on Porthos', holding all of them together. "Athos," Aramis said seriously, "I know I'm--probably the last person who's allowed to say this right now, but..." He paused, searching for the words, then shook his head and smiled. 

"We _made_ it, y'know?" he said, his eyes wide and soft, full of that same wonder Athos had seen on Porthos' face, that Athos himself felt when he looked at both of them, and Aramis believed in love so very, very much. It made Athos believe, too. "And I know," Aramis went on, "that because of what you've lived, that...that it just gives you one more thing to worry about, and I'm not telling you that's wrong, or you shouldn't, because I think you tell _yourself_ that enough--" 

Athos had to laugh, and Aramis beamed at him. "Just remember," Aramis said, looking steadily at him, with that full-force smile turned wholly on Athos in a way that it never had been before (or maybe always had been, and he'd just been too much of a fool to see), "that we're here because we love each other. It's something to celebrate, too."

Athos took a deep breath, feeling the smile work its way across his face all of its own volition. "It's that simple?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," Porthos said, and he smiled at the two of them. "Yeah, it can be."

Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat, and let himself smile. "All right, then," he said. Something in his chest seemed to loosen at the words. "All right," he echoed, to himself. "I'll try to remember that."

"Do," Aramis said, and squeezed his hand. "I'm going to take my hand back now, if it's okay. This might be the first proper meal I've had in three weeks."

Athos laughed out loud, one wonderfully freeing bark of laughter, and Aramis and Porthos shared unbelievably sappy smiles before drawing their hands back into their own space.

"I thought you felt a little bony when I hugged you," Porthos said, flashing Aramis a look as they dug into their lunches. "Were you avoiding us, or just forgetting to eat?"

"Or?" Aramis snorted, rolling his eyes. "Porthos, you underestimate just how self-destructive I can be in a downward spiral." Athos pressed his leg against Aramis' in silent support, and Aramis flashed him a reassuring smile. "I'm starving," he finished, reaching across the table to steal a fry from Porthos' pile of them. "For a lot of things."

"And now we're talking about sex again," Porthos said around a mouthful of food, his dark eyes smiling when his mouth couldn't.

"Well, yeah," Aramis said, blushing again. 

"Is that why," Athos began, then felt all his nerve fail him when their eyes turned to him. "Never mind."

"No, it's okay." Aramis slid his leg against Athos', the warmth of his body obvious even through both of their jeans. "No new secrets."

Athos wasn't exactly sure if what he had to say was going to be helpful, but--they'd decided they needed to talk about things, not let them fester, hadn't they? "Starving," he said, and Aramis tilted his head, not taking his meaning. With a sigh, Athos just stumbled through it. "Have you...not been having sex, then, for three weeks?" 

Aramis blinked. "Oh. Um."

"That was tactful, darling," Porthos sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, and Athos flashed him a wild-eyed _help I don't know what the fuck I'm doing_ look.

Aramis laughed a little nervously, looking back down at his plate, and Athos instantly regretted bringing it up.

"I'm sorry," he said in a rush, stabbing viciously at the chicken breast he'd grabbed sort of arbitrarily from the grill. "I shouldn't--it isn't really my business--"

"No, it is your business," Aramis said, giving him a look. "If for no other reason than we've been naked and all over each other for hours, and you deserve to know what I've been doing with other sex partners. I just wasn't expecting the question."

"I know you've been safe," Porthos said, prompting him. There was an unspoken _...right?_ , however, that Athos could tell Porthos hated to be uncertain about.

"Yes," Aramis said firmly. "Condoms, always. And I would have said something last night if I weren't absolutely sure. I'd never, ever put you two at any kind of risk." 

"Then that's fine," Porthos said, looking between him and Athos. "That's all we really need to know, right?"

Athos desperately wanted to say _yes, of course._

But.

"You need to know," Aramis said, reaching over for Athos' hand.

Athos closed his eyes and nodded. "Old hangups," he said, around the tightness in his throat.

Anne had used it for mind games, sometimes. _I could leave you. I could cheat on you. I could be with someone else, and you'd never know, would you?_ It was her way of making sure he'd never leave, making him desperate to keep her. 

He knew Aramis would never, that Porthos would never, _ever,_ but.

_Less than a day in,_ a savage voice whispered in his head, _and you're already letting your past ruin things._

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing his free hand to his eyes, and Aramis squeezed his hand. 

"I don't mind," Aramis said. "I just thought it'd hurt you...more, I guess, to know specifics."

"I can't say it hasn't been weighing on our minds," Porthos said, when Athos couldn't find any words. "I'm fine having it in the open, if you're really all right with sharing it, Aramis."

"I am," Aramis said, and when Athos looked up, Aramis did look like he meant it. Other people, Athos had to remind himself, were not necessarily terrified of being open.

Aramis squeezed Athos' hand once more then dropped it to reach for his glass. He took a long drink of water, set it down, and wiped his mouth. He stared into the middle distance for a long few moments, before shaking himself and lifting his head. "All right. No, I haven't been celibate for three weeks. I've had a lot of ill-advised and fairly mediocre one night stands, mostly with seniors so there's one less year I'll have to spend seeing them around campus. With those, it was no one you two know, except in passing. Do you want names?"

"No," Athos said hurriedly, exchanging a look with Porthos. "As long as it's not--not someone we know."

Aramis smiled at him--then his face sobered slightly, his cheeks coloring. "You two saw me with Anna," he said then, and Athos' whole body seemed to freeze.

"Oh," he said, his heart spiking. "Yes." He'd forgotten.

Aramis squirmed slightly in his chair, grimacing down at the table. "Louis _was_ there," he said, almost defensively. "I didn't lie about that." 

"We didn't think you did," Porthos said gently, and he slid his chair a little closer to Aramis' so their shoulders could press together. "We were jealous, Aramis. We weren't angry or judging or anything."

Athos found his voice at last. "We can hardly condemn threesomes on principle."

There was a startled moment as the two of them looked at him. 

Then Aramis burst out laughing, and just like that, the tension evaporated. Athos had never _relieved_ tension before. He couldn't quite believe he'd done it.

"You're right," Aramis said, shaking his head. "I don't know why I thought _that_ would be the hangup. No, they--Anna and Louis always talk to me before and after Mass, and we ran into each other when I was skulking around east campus avoiding you two. We went to dinner, they made the offer, and--" He looked up, his expression distant, his eyes speculative. "You know, they have a good thing going, the two of them." 

"They've certainly got _something,"_ Porthos agreed, and Athos had to agree. He had no idea how Louis and Anna worked, but they seemed happy.

"Anyway, if you two saw me looking at her like she was God the next morning," Aramis said, when he'd taken another drink. "That was probably because the two of them gave me the healthiest one night stand I'd had in...basically ever. It was all very cleanly negotiated, very courteous--" His eyes went distant. "And...absolutely amazing."

"What made it so good?" Athos heard himself asking.

Aramis smiled faintly at him. "Well, like you said," he explained, his blush rising again. "I do like being in the middle."

"Oh, Jesus fuck," Porthos said conversationally, dropping his fork and covering his mouth. 

"Yes?" Aramis said, beaming at him.

Porthos shook his head and waved his free hand in a -go on without me- gesture. 

"So that's a kink," Aramis continued, smiling at Athos as if nothing had happened. "I--look, you both know I'm a sexual creature, I'm up for pretty much anything. I'm much more interested in what you two want."

Athos became very interested in his plate again, and Aramis very politely allowed him to be. 

What _did_ he want?

He'd enjoyed taking Aramis' direction, earlier. That had felt good. It had been so good just to relax, to calm down and do something for them.

"I just want it to be easy," Athos said, without quite realizing what he was saying. It was only when he looked up and saw them both staring at him, clearly waiting for more, that he realized he should probably go on. 

Only, he wasn't quite sure how else to explain it.

"I liked," he said, reaching almost reflexively for Porthos' hand--God, it was so much easier, when he was touching them--"I liked the...teaching. I could just relax and let you tell me what to do. And I liked how we just kept falling into each other. I want that to keep happening."

"Keep it relaxed," Porthos said, and Athos managed to smile at him.

Aramis' smile was blinding. "It does feel as easy as breathing," was all he said, and the words settled in Athos' chest.

_Easy as breathing._

Yes. It could be that easy, maybe, to love them.

Athos sighed in relief. "Yes," he said, and Porthos beamed at him. 

"And you, Porthos?" Aramis said, leaning into him. 

Porthos laughed a little uncomfortably, looking down at his food. "I want a lot of things," he said. 

"So do I," Aramis said patiently, pressing his arm against Porthos'. "So does Athos, when you think about it. We're not going to run."

Porthos nodded, his eyes still downcast. "It's nothing--y'know, not knives and fire or anything," he said, pushing his salad around with his fork. "But I like...talking to you both. You might have figured that out." His eyes darted up once to their faces, then hastily away. "And...look, I'm not super proud of it, but I do like it when you both--let me take care of you." It was so like Porthos, Athos thought, to worry about misusing his strength, to worry they didn't want to be taken in hand.

"We like that, too," Aramis reminded him, and stretched up to kiss him. Aramis was so gentle, Athos marveled, in ways he'd never really noticed. "We don't have to get into it all now," he said, rubbing Porthos' arm and smiling at Athos. "For now, let's just say that I'll enjoy being in the middle for some time, Porthos can stay on top if he wants, and Athos, feel free to drift as you feel comfortable?"

"Amazingly succinct," Athos said, hoping his dryness could cover up the sudden, flooding surge of feeling in his chest.

"I'm good at that," Aramis said, beaming at him. 

And Aramis laughed out loud, then, throwing his head back and leaning back in the spindly wood-and-metal dining hall chair. He looked so young, so happy in the daylight, in the openness of the space. 

"What?" Porthos asked cautiously, a smile playing around his lips.

Aramis smiled, looking back and forth between them. "I'm just so glad we're talking again," he said. "I don't think we've gone three weeks without talking since--since we _met._ I've been wanting to talk to you both about--about everything, about nothing, for the longest time."

Athos slid his chair around the table so he could sidle up to Aramis, too. Eating without knocking elbows was overrated. "Agreed," he said, pressing his shoulder firmly against Aramis'.

"Me, too," Porthos said, and his face showed a little bit of that same tidal wave of warm-sea feeling that was currently flooding Athos' chest.

Then his expression settled into a more usual Porthos grin, and he kicked them both under the table. "Now will you both fucking _eat?_ I'm not taking anyone else to bed until I'm sure no one's passing out."

Aramis laughed again, Athos had to smile, and they talked, then. About that everything and nothing Aramis had said--it was amazing how much you could miss in three weeks. Aramis wanted to hear everything they'd done, and Athos and Porthos could stop feeling like they'd been hiding and lying. They could tell him how they'd spent their evenings huddling together, how they'd been too afraid to hold hands or kiss each other for fear of tainting what they might have with how sad they were. 

And Aramis spilled out how he'd spent his days with Ninon and Constance, how they had silently let him hide in their rooms and never asked him why, how d'Artagnan had barely gone a day without texting him to make sure he was okay. How he'd spent hours kneeling in the chapel one night, until Sister Beth found him frozen with numb knees and dragged him up to her office to pour tea into him until he told her why he was alone so often now. 

When Aramis finished telling them that particular story, Athos and Porthos shared a look. 

"Yeah," Porthos said slowly, pushing his chair away from the table. "I think we need to go back to bed."

Aramis' blush spread like a sunset over his face. "Oh?"

"Yes," Athos said, starting to collect their plates. "You can't tell us about how alone you were and not expect us to want to wrap you up and hold you."

Aramis let Porthos draw him to his feet, looking absolutely _bashful,_ for some reason. "You've gotten positively chatty, Athos," he said. "I can't believe it's really you."

"Believe it," Porthos said, and neither Athos nor Aramis missed the way his hand ghosted over Aramis' ass before settling on his waist.

Aramis leaned into Porthos, his blush settling bright on his cheeks. "Porthos," he murmured, looking up through his lashes, "are you trying to have your wicked way with me right here in the dining hall?"

Porthos ducked his head slightly to brush his lips over Aramis' temple, just enough that anyone watching would guess they were just whispering to each other. "If I did, would you hate it?"

Aramis shivered slightly, his blush deepening. "No," he said after a moment, his eyes darting to Athos. Athos had no idea what expression was on his face, but Aramis seemed to like it, judging from the second shiver that coursed down his back.

Porthos nodded, his face thoughtful. "Noted." He glanced over to Athos. "You mind getting the dishes?"

"Not at all," Athos said, easily stacking their plates.

"Good." Porthos picked up his and Aramis' cups in one hand. "In that case--" Porthos leaned into Aramis, his face all innocence--and smacked him right on the swell of his ass. "Upstairs, you."

Aramis let out a sound halfway between a yelp and a laugh, his hips jolting away in surprise even as he reached out and grabbed onto Porthos' shoulder. _"Porthos!"_

Porthos' grin was almost exultant as he wrapped an arm around Aramis' waist, dragging him close. "I'm sorry, I just-- _God,_ I've wanted to do that for years--"

"You _fucker,"_ Aramis laughed, grabbing onto Porthos' shirt and swaying into him, beaming up at him. "You absolute fucker."

"Mmm-hmm," Porthos hummed, his hands settling tight on Aramis' hips and pulling him close. 

"Gentlemen," Athos said firmly, and when they both turned to him, he tilted his head toward the dish return. He was smiling, he couldn't help it, but he felt he owed them at least his best attempt at his usual serious face. "If we could _not_ make out in the dining hall?"

Aramis walked backward a few steps, tugging Porthos with him, his face bright and his eyes alive with delight. "Yeah, we should probably get upstairs before _someone_ \--" He pulled Porthos in close, pressing _all_ against the front of his body and grinning wickedly. "Gets a little bit more than handsy, hmm?" Porthos just smiled back and shamelessly let his hands wander over Aramis' backside, and with a happy-sounding growl Aramis stretched up the half-inch he needed to let his mouth land on Porthos'.

"Upstairs," Athos reminded them, his mouth dry and his jeans too tight, suddenly, and Aramis looked kiss-drunk already when he pulled back, still smiling wider than Athos had seen him smile in ages.

"Dish return," Aramis said, walking backward, pulling Porthos with one hand and reaching out for Athos with the other. "Then upstairs."

Athos didn't let himself look at the other people in the dining hall as the three of them made their way across the floor. He wondered exactly what it looked like; he wondered if people were so used to seeing the three of them being handsy and far too much in each other's personal space that Aramis holding both of their hands would be unremarkable. He wondered if the ass-slap and Aramis' yelp had drawn enough attention that everyone in the dining hall had seen the kiss. 

And then, as they slipped out of sight of the main floor and into the dish return alcove, Athos realized--

He didn't actually care.

People were going to know. People were probably going to have opinions. But their opinions weren't going to _change_ anything.

"You're thinking about something," Porthos said as Athos set the stack of their dishes on the conveyor belt. Athos turned to face them, and Porthos had an arm hooked over Aramis' shoulder, holding Aramis' back against his chest, and Aramis was bright-eyed and flushed, looking utterly comfortable in Porthos' embrace.

"Yes," Athos said. Then he took two steps, and took Aramis' face in his hands. 

Aramis let out a startled sound of pleasure, his mouth falling open as Athos kissed him, and Athos deliberately pressed forward, pinning Aramis against Porthos' chest. 

"What did you say," Porthos rumbled in his ear, "about not making out in the dining hall?"

"Dish return doesn't count," Aramis groaned, throwing his arms around Athos' neck and hauling him even closer.

This was where they'd ruined things the first time, Athos realized suddenly, as his hands shaped Aramis' face and he felt Porthos' fingertips stroking down his sides. Aramis had just barely started avoiding them, and they'd followed him here when he'd wanted to just get away. They'd stood right here and fucked it up.

This was his second chance. _Their_ second chance.

It was a deep kiss, deeper than the one before, and Aramis' eyes were huge when Athos let him go. "What?" Athos murmured, his fingertips tracing Aramis' brows, his nose. 

Aramis swallowed. "Porthos and I flirting is one thing," he said quietly, his eyes darting to the arch leading out into the dining hall proper. "And I don't mind if the whole world sees me held between you two like this. I just--I guess I don't expect it from you."

It made sense, Athos thought ruefully. He'd always gone to great lengths to make it seem like he was above things like that. But Aramis deserved him to try to explain this sudden epiphany, at least. "I didn't care," he said quietly, "if someone came after us and saw when we were trying to chase you down in here the first time, and that was...much more emotionally vulnerable."

Aramis blinked rapidly, Porthos let out a breath, and Athos stroked over Aramis' cheeks again, as soothingly as he could. "So why should I care," he asked, his voice just as low, hoping he could make it clear to them, "if someone came after us and saw me kissing you?"

Aramis' face went unbelievably open at that, his nervous defenses just dropping away. With a soft sound, he dragged Athos close again for a scorchingly deep kiss. Athos' head spun as he fell into it, Aramis' tongue sliding wet and hot against his, Aramis' hands threading into his hair, Aramis' lean body pressed all up against him--

Porthos swore softly, and Athos felt him shift between Aramis and the wall. They _were_ pinning him, Athos realized dimly--just before Aramis gasped and broke away from their kiss with a rough, needy sound, his hips writhing against Athos as he pressed back into Porthos.

"Oh," Athos said thickly, suddenly putting together Porthos' desperate curse and motion, and Aramis' squirming response. 

Well, if he'd had Porthos hard against his ass, he'd probably be whining, too.

"Upstairs?" Porthos asked, his hand tightening on Athos' waist. It pulled Athos a little closer, squeezing Aramis just that much more between them, and when Aramis let out a shaky sigh, Porthos bit his own lip, his eyes falling shut. "Upstairs, _please-_ "

"Okay," Athos said, stretching up to give Porthos a deep kiss of his own. Porthos took it, kissed him back just as fiercely, and Athos nearly lost himself in it when Porthos' teeth closed lightly on his bottom lip. But then Aramis groaned between them, and Athos broke away with a curse of his own. "Upstairs. Yes."

He took a few steps back, giving himself enough distance to regain his sanity. Aramis pushed himself up off Porthos' chest, swaying like he was drunk, and Porthos reached out to steady him. 

Aramis looked up at them through the fall of his hair, and Athos caught his breath. Aramis, flushed and dark-eyed, his hair disheveled and his limbs slack and easy--looking at _him_ like that. 

He'd wanted it for so long, he never thought he'd get used to it.

Aramis' smile spread slow and wicked across his face, and without looking away from either Athos or Porthos, he took a few steps back, until he was leaning back against the double doors of the dining hall. Outside was the hall, the foyer, the elevator leading back up to their sanctuary.

Athos and Porthos shared a look. Aramis looked like he had something on his mind, the kind of look that usually meant hell was about to be raised. That look had nearly gotten the three of them suspended spring of their first year, because the trees in the arboretum were _not_ for climbing, much less jumping out of into the lake--

Athos' train of thought shuddered to a stop when Aramis' tongue darted out across his lips, wetting them before he spoke. 

"I'm going to run to the elevator now," Aramis said, his smile wolfish and his voice very low. "Whoever catches me gets to have me first."

And Athos had a sudden bone-deep certainty that this was how it was going to be, for the rest of the day and the week and maybe the rest of their lives: talking, teasing, games of luck and love; starving for each other every single moment and never being full, never getting tired of the adrenaline jolt of being together, being free to kiss and touch and smile wild and wicked and be _together--_

For a split second, he was happier than he'd ever been in his life.

Then Aramis shoved the doors open behind himself and took off at a run, and Athos and Porthos raced off after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on [tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to let go, and being safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! One more happyhappy sexy chapter as a holiday present to you all, and then it's back to Actual Plot. Enjoy if you celebrate, and if not, have a great weekend!

Aramis was laughing, wild and happy, as he bolted down the hallway from the dining hall to the foyer, looking back over his shoulder every now and then to let the flash of his smile urge them on. Utter fools that they were for him, Athos and Porthos scrambled after him as fast as they could, grabbing at whatever they could of arms or shirts or hands to slow the other down, jockeying for a lead in the slim space of the hall. 

It wasn't until Athos heard his own voice joining in the raucous echoes in the narrow space that he realized he was laughing too, laughing just as wildly as Aramis and Porthos were--laughing even louder as Porthos hooked him around the waist and spun him back to take away his meager lead. 

_Whoever catches me gets to have me first,_ Aramis had said, and _fuck,_ Athos hadn't realized how much he wanted to have Aramis at his mercy until their lithe and mischievous lover had dangled the prize in front of them.

His whole body was alight with happiness and desire, his mind afire with ideas of what he'd do and the image of Aramis spread out and panting beneath him-- _fuck, it's hard to run with a hard-on,_ he thought wildly, but at least that would give him an edge over Porthos, who certainly had more to slow him down.

Abruptly Aramis disappeared from sight, taking the sharp turn from the hall to the foyer, and for once, Athos was thrilled with his smaller stature--it let him duck under Porthos' outstretched arm and take the turn at speed, while Porthos had to slow down and catch himself on the opposite wall.

"Fuck!" Porthos laughed behind him as they burst out into the foyer, because in that fraction of a second he knew he'd lost. Aramis was still racing to the elevator, but he looked back at that, slowing just enough for Athos to lunge the last three steps and grab Aramis' trailing hand.

Aramis' face lit up at Athos' exultant _Yes!_ , and Athos missed a step from how fucking _stunning_ that looked-- And then their momentum had carried them too far, and they collided with the closed elevator doors. Breathless, laughing, without even stopping to think, Athos pinned Aramis to the doors and kissed him fiercely, victory singing through his chest. Aramis threw his arms around Athos' neck with total abandon, smiling so widely he could barely kiss back, and then Porthos was there, half-falling into them and pinning them both to the doors with his arms on either side of them. 

"I believe we have a winner," Aramis murmured against Athos' lips.

Athos felt Porthos' panting breath mix with curses on the back of his neck, and he lifted his head with a vicious grin. "Too slow, Porthos," he gasped, pressing a biting kiss to the soft place just under Aramis' jaw.

"Yeah," Porthos panted, his hips rocking forward into Athos' ass, and _oh,_ he was, he was fucking hard, and Athos arched back into him with an incoherent sound. "Too slow, and now I have to watch you two fuck each other while I wait my turn, oh, poor me, I'm not gonna make it--"

Aramis crowed with laughter, his body pressing against Athos' in a sinuous slide, and Athos' mind went blank of anything but the animal lust currently racing through his system. He pinned Aramis with another victorious growl, devouring his mouth with another kiss, and both Aramis and Porthos were making the most obscene noises, panting and cursing and laughing and Athos couldn't _stand_ it, it was so fucking _good,_ it was easy and happy and he never wanted it to stop.

The faint _ding_ of the elevator arriving didn't penetrate Athos' single-minded haze of arousal until Aramis yelped and staggered backward as the wall he was leaning on abruptly disappeared. Athos half-fell after him, Porthos holding him up, and the three of them stumbled into the elevator, still laughing and swearing and clinging to each other. Leaving Porthos to press the floor button, Athos pinned Aramis against the back wall of the elevator again--he just couldn't help it, Aramis looked so good and he was smiling at Athos _like that_ and he'd said--

"Did you mean it?" he gasped against Aramis' lips. "Aramis, were you just teasing, or did you--"

"I don't offer things like that unless I mean it," Aramis said, sliding his hand down Athos' back and slipping under his shirt. His eyes were totally black up close like this, his chest rising and falling rapidly against Athos', and Athos' fingers flexed against the wall of the elevator as Aramis' palm flattened against his back.

"Being chased really does it for you, huh?" Porthos breathed, bracing himself on the wall with one hand and stroking Aramis' arm with the other.

Aramis' head lolled back against the wall of the elevator, and he swore softly as the elevator lurched into motion. "You've always known I liked being chased," he said breathlessly. "You've always known that."

"Yes," Athos said, ducking his head to press more tongue-and-teeth kisses to Aramis' neck. Aramis loved to be pursued, loved to be wooed--and now he had two people to do that for him, always. "But--" And he rocked up to kiss Aramis again, rolling his hips against Aramis' to keep him pinned. 

Aramis' shocked sound of arousal sent a spike of lust straight to his groin, and Athos rested his forehead against Aramis'. "You like being caught more," he breathed, just to watch Aramis' pupils dilate and his mouth fall open.

"Fuck," Porthos hissed as Aramis surged forward to kiss Athos, to suck his tongue into his mouth and melt against him, and Athos groaned as Porthos' hand landed on the nape of his neck. "Fuck, you two look so good."

Athos groaned again, loud and shameless--he wasn't _thinking,_ he wasn't thinking about anything at all besides Aramis and Porthos, and it felt so good. Nothing hovered over him, no echoing worries in the back of his head. He could be out of control with them--it was safe. 

For the first time in years, Athos felt free.

"Bed," Aramis choked as the elevator dinged and started to slow. "Bed, Athos, Porthos, take me to bed--"

"We are," Athos promised, grabbing Aramis' wrist and pulling him back through the doors as they opened. They only got a few steps before Athos had to slam him up against the kitchen door and press more savage kisses to his neck, intoxicated with Aramis' sounds and smells and taste and with his newfound _freedom._ "We're not going to let you leave it," he gasped against Aramis' skin, and Aramis nearly sobbed with need, winding his fingers into Athos' hair and tugging his head back up to catch Athos in a needy kiss.

"Am I gonna have to fucking carry you two?" Porthos half-laughed, his voice impossibly rough, and Athos and Aramis broke apart, staring at each other with black, dazed eyes.

"Do you want him to?" Athos asked, because he was starting to understand that look on Aramis' face, and Aramis' head fell back against the kitchen door with a -thunk.-

"Porthos," he said, like a prayer, and Athos stepped back, suddenly dizzy, as Porthos moved in to claim a kiss of his own. 

As they kissed, Porthos' hands slid down Aramis' side to his thighs, and Athos saw him _squeeze,_ saw the muscles in his arms tighten and his back ripple, and Aramis let out a gut-punch sound of lust when Porthos just _picked him up._ Aramis' legs came up to wrap around Porthos' waist, and Athos leaned against the wall, staring at them, completely overwhelmed at the sight. 

"Oh, fuck, please," Aramis gasped, his head falling back again, and Porthos straightened, his hands underneath Aramis' legs, like it was fucking _easy,_ like Aramis didn't weigh anything. 

It was a slow, stumbling progress back to Athos' room--once he had Aramis in his arms, Porthos clearly couldn't help stopping to press him against the nearest wall once or twice, and Aramis kept moaning loud encouragement every time. They made out against Athos' door for what had to be a full minute, hips rolling together and Aramis' legs flexing around Porthos' waist, and all Athos could do was _watch,_ press himself against Porthos' back and stare at the two of them kiss and kiss like they were dying.

"Please, please," Aramis managed to say when Porthos finally pulled away to drop his head to Aramis' collarbone and breathe him in. "Please, bed, please--"

Athos reached around Porthos, fumbling for the doorknob and squeezing Porthos' hip in warning--but Porthos had Aramis, held his weight without his arms straining in the slightest, and no one fell as Athos finally got the door open. 

It was three-thirty in New England as the fall turned inexorably to winter, and the sun was setting outside. Long rays of light fell on the piles of leaves and crisping grass in the courtyard, and they'd forgotten to lower the shade when they left. So the setting sun lit up Athos' room in the same colors, orange and yellow and gold, and when Porthos lay Aramis down on the bed, their skin glowed like precious metals, and they were beautiful.

Athos understood goldlust for the first time as he knelt on the bed beside them, as Aramis reached up for him in the sunlight that turned Aramis and Porthos to gold and bronze. He would be a dragon, he would hoard this gleam for the rest of his life.

His voice locked in his chest as he stared at them, as he felt the blankets underneath him and abruptly realized they _were_ in bed, they'd made it upstairs, and now--now.

Aramis reached for the hem of his own shirt and dragged it up over his head, and all that golden skin spurred Athos into motion again. He lunged forward for Aramis, gasping for air as he kissed him with singleminded focus, and with only a little shifting, Aramis had Athos straddling his lap as Aramis leaned back into Porthos.

"Get naked," Aramis choked against Athos' lips. "It's been hours and that's too long, I want your skin, both of you--"

Athos scrambled back off Aramis so they all could pull at each other's clothes, and they hadn't been this _frenzied_ before, had they? There had been brief interludes of drowning desire, but last night, they'd been a little slower-- _more careful,_ Athos realized, as he shoved his own jeans down his hips and leaned over to unbutton Porthos' as he pulled off his own shirt. 

They didn't have to be so careful now. They knew they wanted each other, they knew they could relax. 

"Is this what you wanted, Aramis?" Athos asked him when they were all stripped naked again, as Porthos dragged Aramis back against his chest, between his legs, and Athos straddled his lap again. He barely recognized his own voice, how rough it was, how it curled around Aramis' name like a caress. "You wanted to feel all this?"

"God, yes," Aramis panted, writhing back and forth between them. "God, you're so hot, you feel so good, you look so fucking amazing, I want you. I want you, Athos, Porthos, please--"

"We've got you," Porthos gasped, kissing his neck. "We've got you, you're gonna have us, we promise."

Athos' head was spinning as Aramis let out a shuddering sound, arching against them both. _Have him._ That was what Aramis had promised, wasn't it, but what--what exactly--

Porthos pulled Aramis' head to the side so he could kiss the hickey they'd left the night before, and Aramis actually _shouted_ his name, twisting into his embrace and arching up into the touch of his lips. 

"Oh, _fuck_ \--fuck, Porthos, I can't," he babbled, his body convulsing between them. "I can't, I'm gonna--not yet, you, you have to--I need you first, need you to--"

"Need us to what?" Athos ground out, winding his hand into Aramis' hair and keeping it there, and Aramis shook and sobbed, his eyes landing on Athos and fixing him with that drowning-dark gaze.

Porthos' teeth flashed and Aramis jerked with a cry, his hand shooting out to clutch at Athos' shoulder. "Fuck me," he gasped, writhing in their hold. "Fuck me, please, please, I need you to, _fuck,_ Athos, fuck me, please--"

Athos swayed on his knees, staring at Aramis, completely overwhelmed by those four words-- _Athos, fuck me, please_ \--words he'd never thought Aramis would ever say to him, and now he was sweating and squirming in his arms and begging him for it.

He fell forward into him, then, kissing him with unrestrained adoration, devotion, _desire,_ and Aramis moaned against his mouth, completely lost to it. 

"You," Athos gasped, when he could pull away, when he could speak, "you want me to, want us to--you're sure, sure you--?" He could barely string the words together; he wanted Aramis so badly that it scared him, that his hands were shaking with it.

"-Yes,-" Aramis said fiercely, hauling Athos even closer and planting a hard, messy kiss on his mouth. "Yes, _yes,_ I made you chase me because I want it and I couldn't choose who I wanted _first,_ I want it so much I nearly asked you for it last night, I want it, Athos."

There was nothing, _nothing_ Athos could do at that but rest his forehead against Aramis' and try to make the world stop spinning. This was happening. It was only Porthos' hand landing on his shoulder that made him suck in a breath.

His eyes flashed to Porthos, looking wildly for a rock to ground himself on, and Porthos nodded steadily at him. Porthos' eyes were wild around the edges, too, his lips parted slightly as he breathed heavily against Aramis' neck, but Porthos--Porthos always knew what to do.

"Lube and condoms," Porthos said, and Athos had to fight down a shiver at the sound of his voice. "Bottom drawer?"

Athos nodded, dizzy with the _reality_ of it, suddenly, and Aramis let out a soft moan, leaning forward into Athos' arms like he was trying to burrow inside of him.

Porthos' grin was almost reverent. "Stay just like that," he said, and stretched out to the end of the bed so he could reach Athos' desk drawer.

Aramis was mouthing against the sweat-damp skin of his chest, and Athos pushed his hands back into Aramis' hair and held on. "Want you," Aramis murmured, his voice muffled against Athos' skin. "Want you so much, wanted you for so long."

Athos dropped his head and buried his face in Aramis' hair, just breathing him in and trying to regain some shred of his self-control. Aramis deserved him to have a fucking grip right now.

"I wish you two could see yourselves," Porthos said, and Athos blinked his eyes open to see Porthos stroking a hand over Aramis' back, up and down his spine, as he watched the two of them buried in each other. "You look so fucking good together, you both look like you need it so much."

Athos squeezed his eyes shut again, ruthlessly repressing a moan. Aramis did no such thing, his breath hot on Athos' chest as he let his groan echo against Athos' lungs.

"I do," Aramis breathed, tilting his head up, and when Athos opened his eyes, Aramis was staring up at him with wide eyes, swaying into him. "Athos, I do, I need it, please."

It took him a few breaths to find his voice, with Aramis _begging_ him like that. "I don't--I've never--" Athos swallowed hard, cradling Aramis' face in his hands and resting their foreheads against each other. "I should have let Porthos win, I don't know what I'm doing, I don't want to hurt you."

Porthos snorted, that trace of humor so familiar that Athos felt himself starting to surface from the drowning, wild torrent that had been dragging him under. Porthos was a lifesaver. "Then it's good that it's you," Porthos said, grinning that crooked smile at the two of them. "I don't think he's got the patience it'd take to get him ready for me right now."

Aramis gave a gasping laugh, reaching out to drag Porthos into a kiss, and Athos didn't understand until Aramis reached between Porthos' legs and slid once, caressingly, over the length of his erection. 

_Then_ Athos got it.

There was a lot, he thought dimly as blood rushed in his ears, he needed to learn about fucking men.

"I can't wait for that," Aramis said against Porthos' lips, and for a moment Athos could just _watch_ them wrapped in each other, faces barely an inch apart, as they breathed each other's air. "I can't wait to feel you fucking me, but--you're right, I don't, I don't think I can--you don't mind, Porthos, do you--?"

Porthos silenced Aramis with a kiss, his fingers pushing through Aramis' hair, and Aramis squirmed and moaned against him. When they broke apart, Porthos was grinning again--this lazy, hot smile that made Athos feel like he'd swallowed fire, like he could feel it jumping and crackling and licking at his insides.

"He beat me fair and square," Porthos murmured against Aramis' mouth. "But can I get you ready for him?"

Aramis sucked in a breath and stared at him, his eyes huge and pleading again. "Oh, Porthos, please, I love your hands," he said in a rush, and Porthos' face glowed with satisfaction.

He kissed Aramis again, once, and murmured, "Lie back, baby, get comfortable." Aramis flopped back into the pillows at the head of the bed with a purr of delight, grabbing at one and shoving it under his hips. Athos stared, struck silent with lust, until Porthos turned to him, sliding across the covers to take Athos in his arms and kiss him.

"You want me to show you?" Porthos said when they pulled apart, his hands cradling Athos' head like they always did. As much as his thoughts were reeling, his heart pounding with lust and need and nerves, Athos never felt steadier or safer than he did in Porthos' hands. "You've been learning so much today, you want me to show you how to make him come apart?"

It was incredible, the difference a day made.

Athos nodded slowly, then faster, more forcefully because he needed them to _know,_ and his voice flooded up and spilled out of him in one gasping _"Yes."_

Porthos smoothed his hair back from his face, and it was like Porthos settled just with the motion. Porthos always seemed to calm himself by calming them, and Athos would spend every day of the rest of his life being grateful for Porthos and his care, he was sure.

"C'mere, then," Porthos said, and he maneuvered them until they sat on either side of Aramis, with him lying between them and gazing up with those needy, dark eyes. 

Aramis smiled up at Athos, his face so trusting, so fucking open, and Athos had to lean down to kiss him, he couldn't help it. 

Then Aramis gasped against Athos' lips, his body jerking, and when Athos broke away to look, he saw Porthos was rubbing his hand slowly over Aramis' inner thigh, back and forth, not close enough to touch his cock. 

"Porthos, get on with it," Aramis said, urgency plain in his voice. 

Porthos grinned at him, then beckoned Athos down as he reached for the bottle of lube. "You just gotta go slow," he said, and he flicked open the cap with a practiced hand. Athos swallowed, hard, and watched Porthos pour slickness over his fingers and rub them together.

He was getting it warm, Athos realized suddenly, and a warm rush of affection coursed through him. Always the caretaker. "You know so much about this," Athos said, well aware of how stupidly in awe he sounded. 

Aramis reached up and threaded his fingers through Athos', squeezing his hand. 

Porthos' lopsided grin was back. "When I do something, I like to do it right," was all he said, and he looked down at Aramis, his expression sharpening, growing hotter and more serious, more full of intent. "Knees up a bit, babe," he murmured, running his clean hand over Aramis' thigh.

Aramis sighed, his body strung tight with anticipation. He drew his legs up and let them fall open slightly, putting himself on display for them, and Athos' mouth went dry.

He didn't know if he could ever be as open, as vulnerable, as Aramis was being for them--and to do it so casually, so freely.

"You're incredible," he murmured, stroking Aramis' thigh the same way Porthos had, and Aramis looked up at him with wide, loving eyes.

Then his eyelashes fluttered wildly and he gasped, throwing his head back. _"Oh,_ Porthos--"

And Athos looked down to see Porthos' fingers pressing gently at the skin behind Aramis' balls, stroking back and forth, circling lightly around his rim, the way Athos had done last night. The lube was slick, and it made the drag of his fingers almost nonexistent--Athos could only imagine how it left Aramis with nothing but pressure and warmth.

Aramis' hips hitched down, already trying to get more, and Porthos laughed, sliding his hand up to stroke over Aramis' cock once. "I always imagined you as a greedy bottom," he said, his voice simultaneously soft with affection and gravel-rough, and Aramis gasped in pleasure, his eyes fluttering open.

"You imagined me?" he half-laughed, holding tight to Athos' hand as he reached up for Porthos with the other. "Oh, you have to tell me, Porthos, you have to tell me everything."

Porthos dropped down to brace himself on one elbow, half-stretching out beside Aramis at that, so his body was all pressed against Aramis' side. He didn't stop the careful circling slide of his fingers, and Athos was torn between watching _that_ and watching Aramis and Porthos gaze at each other.

"I did," Porthos said. Athos felt like the heat in Porthos' voice was joining with the fire i his stomach, and he wondered if Aramis, too, felt like he was about to burst into flames. "I thought about exactly this," Porthos said, his eyes locked on Aramis. "Thought about lying next to you and getting you open like this."

"You haven't yet," Aramis said, his voice hitching and breathless. "Porthos, _please_ \--"

Porthos hushed him with another kiss. Aramis arched up into it with a pleading sound, and when Porthos pulled away, there was an almost superhuman control on his face. "Athos, can you give me a little more?" he said, his gaze flicking up to Athos' face. 

Athos fumbled for the bottle in the sheets, his whole body crying out with an echoing need to the one he'd seen in Porthos' eyes--because if Porthos' face was steady, his eyes were _not._ Athos dripped more lube down over Porthos' fingertips, over Aramis' skin, and watched as Porthos caught it with his fingers, spread it slightly. Aramis' faint intake of breath reminded Athos that he hadn't warmed it up the way Porthos had, and he cursed himself in his head, even as he tucked the bottle underneath his leg so he wouldn't repeat the mistake.

"Still a natural," Porthos said, giving Athos a smile that made his toes curl with desire--and then he looked back down at Aramis. "Let me see your face while I touch you, then, gorgeous," he said, and slowly pressed one finger inside him.

Aramis' mouth fell open at the slow slide, his eyes widening and his face going slack as he stared up at Porthos. It was stunning, how good that much pleasure made him look. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, _oh,_ Porthos, you were right, I'll be so greedy for this."

"You like getting fucked, then?" Porthos asked quietly, circling the finger he had inside Aramis, pressing at the outside with the knuckles of his other, and Aramis' eyes fell closed with a gasp. 

"I--I do," Aramis said, clutching at Porthos' shoulder with one hand and his fingers twisting in Athos' with the other. Athos held on, squeezed tight, and felt his own breath rattle in his chest as he watched. Porthos drew his finger back, tantalizingly slowly, and Aramis actually held his breath until Porthos pushed it back in. As Porthos pressed him open, Aramis let his breath out with a sob, staring up at them. "Oh, fuck, I do, I feel like I shouldn't but I do, it feels so good, you feel so good--"

Porthos tilted his head to kiss a path along the edge of Aramis' jaw. "Don't let anyone," he whispered, "make you think you shouldn't like this. I can feel how much you're trembling, I can see how hard you are, I can feel you hot and tight and fucking perfect around me. You fucking _love_ this, Aramis, and I love doing it for you, and that's fucking beautiful."

Aramis arched back with another sobbing gasp of pleasure, and Athos watched, enraptured. He'd never seen anything as intimate, as fucking gorgeous as this. "You always know, Porthos," Aramis said, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, "you always know just what to--how to take care of me, always."

"I've been trying to for two and a half years," Porthos said, resting his face in the crook of Aramis' neck. "I'm glad it's finally working."

Aramis laughed, his smile so fucking _happy_ that Athos had to lean down and kiss it, and Aramis rocked up into him with a moan. "Athos, I don't know how you managed keeping him a secret," Aramis sighed as Athos kissed his mouth, his cheek, his temple. "He's so wonderful, I'm going to be shouting it from the roof."

"You'll be shouting something else in a minute," Porthos said with a filthy smile, and did something that made Aramis' body jolt like he'd been electrocuted. 

_"Fuck,_ do that again," Aramis said breathlessly, staring down his body at Porthos, and this time Athos was watching when Porthos curled his finger and _pressed._

Aramis' cry echoed in the small room this time, unrestrained and joyful, and profanity spilled from his mouth in two languages as Porthos added another finger. "Porthos, fuck, how do you--how do you _always_ \--" Aramis' voice broke and he tugged helplessly on Athos' arm, looking pleadingly up at him. "Kiss me, fucking distract me, give me something, he's just going to _break_ me, Athos--"

"He's not," Athos said, sliding down to lay beside Aramis, too. He brushed his lips over Aramis', then kissed him more deeply, and Aramis was sucking in rough, gasping breaths through his nose when they pulled apart. Athos rested his forehead against Aramis' and stroked his face. "He's putting you back together."

He had no idea where the words came from. But he knew they were right. Aramis stared up at him, and this close, Athos could see the thin ring of brown around his blown pupils, could see the droplets of sweat beading at his temples.

"You both are," Aramis said, his voice cracking--then his eyes went huge and he thrashed under Athos, his head snapping back as he choked down a sound. _"Porthos."_

Athos looked down Aramis' body to see Porthos moving his fingers steadily in and out of Aramis' body, looking up at the two of them with a tiny, wicked smile playing around his lps. "Yes?"

"Christ have mercy, will you stop teasing," Aramis gasped, clinging to Athos and clawing wildly at Porthos' shoulder with his other hand. "I'm not going to fucking _last,_ will you just--"

"Well, I was supposed to be teaching Athos how to open you up," Porthos reminded him, "but you keep distracting him, hmm?"

"I'm distracting _him,_ I thought," Athos said, a smile spreading over his face as he flattened a calming hand over the jumping muscles of Aramis' stomach. He loved that they were still teasing, playing, _joking_ even like this. They still felt like themselves.

"Come down here," Porthos said, his eyes hot and dark on Athos. "I need more lube." 

Athos gave Aramis one more kiss before sitting up again and moving to help Porthos. As he brought the bottle closer, he had to catch his breath, at just the fucking sight of Porthos' fingers moving slickly in and out of Aramis' body.

"I know," Porthos said, his voice almost reverent as he caught the lube with his fingers again, spreading it around, before pushing back in. "Feels as amazing as it looks. Fuck, you two are gonna look so good together."

Somehow, Athos had forgotten, in all this, that they were doing this so he could fuck Aramis. But now, watching Porthos' fingers twist and spread in Aramis, watching the way Aramis' body seemed to cling to his fingers, pulling them back in--now he couldn't think of anything _but_ that.

He looked up for Aramis' face, feeling like he was drowning again, and Aramis was watching them through his eyelashes, his teeth sunk into his swollen bottom lip. "Hurry up," he said, his voice rough. "Porthos, hurry up, I want to come with him in me."

Athos closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the _want_ that threatened to break over him, his hips rocking helplessly against Aramis' side. 

"Yeah, I think he wants that, too," Porthos said, his voice softer, heavier with heat, this time. "I think you're almost ready, babe."

Aramis moaned again, Athos felt him jerk, and when he opened his eyes Aramis' body was a long, taut line of need, his toes curling as his back arched. Porthos' face was fiercely intent as he spread his fingers in Aramis, pushing them slowly in and out, and Athos wished he could take a picture, suddenly, just to capture the way the two of them were feeding off each other's pleasure again.

"How does he feel?" he asked Porthos, the words coming out of that place that surprised him, still, and Porthos flashed him a sideways smile, his wrist flexing slightly. Aramis' choked sound was musical, his eyes squeezing shut as his mouth fell open, and Porthos' smile was blinding.

"Incredible," he said softly, and slowly pulled his hand out. "Come here, Athos, touch him."

For a second, Athos couldn't move for the sudden wave of tension-terror-need that flooded over him. He didn't know what he was more afraid of, hurting Aramis or getting too caught up in it--but Aramis opened his eyes and looked pleadingly up at him, that begging expression back on his face, and Athos moved instantly to settle between Aramis' legs.

Porthos picked up the lube and guided Athos' hand against Aramis' skin. He drizzled the lube slowly, carefully, so Athos could trap it in his fingertips like he'd seen Porthos do, and then-- 

"Slow and gentle, like you did last night," Porthos breathed in his ear. "Three fingers," and Athos did as he said, his blood rushing in his ears so loudly he could barely hear Aramis' moan.

Silky and hot and slick, and Aramis opened under Athos' fingers, relaxed but still pushing back, still wanting more. Athos stared, slack-jawed with need, at his own hand, at Aramis' equally needy face when he looked up.

He kept expecting to wake up, any second. This was too good to be real.

"That's how he should feel when you fuck him," Porthos murmured, resting his chin on Athos' shoulder so he could press a kiss to Athos' temple. "Relaxed, taking you easy. Does he feel like he can take your cock now?"

Athos nodded dizzily, and Aramis rocked his hips down against Athos' hand, vocal in his need. "I can, I'm _more_ than fucking ready, I need you to fuck me, Athos, _please_ \--"

Athos heard the tear of a condom packet, and he had to hold on to Porthos and breathe as Porthos rolled the condom down over his cock and slicked him up--he'd forgotten, or been able to ignore somehow, how fucking hard he was himself, how almost painfully urgent his erection had become, and now suddenly Porthos was touching him and Aramis was begging him to fuck him--

Even when they'd woken up wrapped in each other, he'd somehow never imagined, never thought that they would get this far--

"God, I feel so fucking lucky," Porthos breathed against his shoulder. "You know what to do now, love, go on."

Athos stared down at their bodies, then let his eyes track slowly up to Aramis' face. 

Aramis' chest rose and fell in a steady pant, and he bit his lip, reaching up as Athos spread his hands over Aramis' thighs. Athos stretched forward so Aramis could touch him, everything hazy like a dream, and he felt his nerve endings sparking where Aramis' fingers traced over his skin, trailing over his cheekbones and jaw. 

Aramis was trembling all over, and Athos turned his face into Aramis' palm. "I've got you," he murmured, kissing his skin, and what a change, from the night before. He'd been the one who needed to be held, needed the reassurance that they weren't going to let him fall--now, now that he knew they had him, it seemed like he stood on that much sturdier ground, stable enough to reach up and help them in turn. 

"I know you do," Aramis breathed, shifting his hips up into Athos' hold. "Athos, now, please."

Athos let out a shaky breath and nipped at the soft inside of Aramis' palm. Aramis caught his breath, Porthos laughed, and Athos leaned back and shifted Aramis' legs in his grip, pushing them just that little bit further apart. 

"Like this?" he murmured, turning his head just a little towards Porthos.

Porthos grinned and nodded, and he stretched out beside Aramis again. "Just like that," he said, looking steadily up at Athos. "Don't keep him waiting."

"No," Aramis said, his voice breaking, and he shifted his hips in Athos' hold again. His eyes were locked on Athos, and his stomach and leg muscles were jumping, his cock lay heavy and leaking against his belly, and his hair was a mess and his body shone with sweat and sunlight and his lips were dark with kissing and how, how could anyone be so beautiful, how could this be his best friend who he'd loved for so long?

Athos was too far away. He leaned down and braced himself on one arm, holding himself above Aramis, and pushed Aramis' leg up with the other. Aramis fell open for him, pressed up towards him, and Athos rested his forehead against Aramis' as he shifted his own hips forward. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, to keep them locked on Aramis'. 

"Come on," Aramis said, hooking one leg around Athos' waist and pulling him closer. "Come on."

And Athos did. 

They didn't close their eyes, didn't look away from each other as Athos pressed into him. Aramis' eyelashes fluttered, his mouth fell open, and Athos couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but let his hips drive forward, achingly slowly, into Aramis' body. He was so hot--too hot, too fucking hot and slick and _good_ and Athos couldn't stand it, it had been four very long and lonely years since he'd properly fucked anyone and now this was _Aramis_ \--

Athos gasped in a breath and buried his face in Aramis' neck, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting his body not to come right this second. 

"Aramis," he groaned helplessly. He only knew one word right now.

Aramis gave a breathy gasp underneath him. "Athos." His hands landed in Athos' hair, smoothing down his spine, and Athos' whole body shuddered. 

"Okay?" Porthos murmured, and Athos sucked in a breath. 

"It's been--" Aramis shivered under him at the sound of his voice, and that felt so fucking good that Athos had to catch his breath before he could finish the sentence. "A long, long time," he managed to choke out at length, his hips struggling not to push uncontrollably into Aramis and end this too soon. 

"Oh, Athos," Aramis sighed, stroking his back. "Oh, my love."

_My love._

Fire raced over his skin at the words, and Athos' hips jerked forward uncontrollably. Aramis gasped out a _yes,_ arching up, and Athos swore, pushing into him. It was too fucking good, and his hips found their own rhythm, craving it, _fuck,_ Aramis felt so good-- "Aramis," he moaned, unable to do anything else. "Fuck, _Aramis_ \--"

"Oh, my God," Aramis choked, clutching at Athos' back. "Oh my _God,_ I--I forgot how--" His voice broke on a moan, a half-gulped breath, and his nails dug in like claws in Athos' back. 

Athos didn't recognize his own strangled groan. He barely recognized any of this as something he could do, something he remembered _how_ to do, even as his hips jolted forward again. Aramis cried out, his body seizing under Athos, and his neck stretched taut as his back bowed--it was gorgeous, and it looked like an expression of pleasure. Pleasure so intense, it--it almost looked like it was painful--?

Athos forced himself still. He held himself over Aramis, braced on his forearms and gasped for air. "Am--am I hurting you, does it--"

"No," Aramis said, his voice choked with urgency, and his hips twitched in tiny jerks against Athos, silently pleading for him to move. "No, no pain, it's good, it's so fucking good, Athos, you're everywhere, I can feel you everywhere--"

It was Athos' turn to choke a breaking "Oh my _God,"_ because he knew exactly what Aramis meant, he could feel Aramis' heat rushing through his fingertips, his toes, the tips of his fucking _ears,_ and he felt it twisting and tightening at the base of his spine--

"Aramis, stop talking or I'm going to come," he ground out, clenching his teeth and trying to just focus, focus. Aramis fell silent with an overwhelmingly delicious moan, and Athos felt Porthos' hand settle steadying on his back.

And Athos made himself breathe, forced himself to keep gasping air that made his lungs burn until shivers had stopped chasing each other along his skin, until his hips had stopped straining, trembling, into Aramis' body and he'd fucking gotten a _grip._

"I don't want to just fuck you," he said against Aramis' neck, to feel him shiver again. "I want--fuck, Aramis, I want..."

There weren't words, he didn't know the fucking words for all the things he wanted anymore. He'd never been good at this. He just wanted this, wanted Aramis underneath him and open for him and trusting him, wanted to give Aramis everything, absolutely everything, that Aramis had asked for because Aramis _deserved_ that care, after so long, after too long.

But how the fuck could he _say_ that, he couldn't even say _I love you,_ so instead Athos lifted his head and sealed his mouth over Aramis'. He kissed away the gasps and the shivers and the whimpers, until Aramis was pliant under his hands, relaxed and liquid hot. He kissed Aramis until Aramis pulled back, his hands framing Athos' face, and his lips were slick and shiny when he whispered, "Athos, can you move now? Please? I want to feel you so badly."

Athos nodded slowly, lifting up slightly so he could brace himself better, and Porthos slid in where he'd been, so Aramis wouldn't be cold, wouldn't have even a second to think he was going to be alone.

And this time, when Athos drew back and thrust into him, Aramis dropped his head back and moaned, looking up at Athos through his eyelashes. "Yeah," he gasped, as Athos drove into him again, and again. "Oh, God, Athos, just like that."

Athos dipped his head to kiss Aramis again as he settled into a steady, deep rhythm. This wasn't a fast and rough fuck, wasn't supposed to be a hurried, hidden quickie--they had time, now. They had all the time in the world. 

How long had it been since he'd felt this good? How long, since his whole body felt like it was wrapped in a slowly rising warmth--since his entire world had become one bed and the people in it, with no fear or nerves or chemicals to cloud it? Had he ever felt this good before?

Had he ever let himself feel this good before?

"I never let myself imagine, Aramis," he heard himself saying, "how good you would feel--nothing would have come close to this, nothing."

Aramis' moan echoed through both of their bodies, and he clenched around Athos' cock suddenly. Athos swore, his lungs abruptly feeling like they'd gone up in flames as he gasped for air, and Aramis let out a strangled whimper, arching into him again.

"You feel amazing," Aramis gasped. "Oh, Athos, you feel so good." He looked like he wanted to say more, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment, but then he broke off on another moan and pushed up into Athos again. "Just--just move, keep moving, make me, let me feel you, please."

"Whatever you want," Athos said, feeling the tide pull him under again, and he pressed his forehead to Aramis, closing his eyes. "Everything you want."

"Just you," Aramis breathed against his mouth. "Just this."

Athos lost time. There was Aramis' body around him, and there was the sweat on his arms and his back, the blaze of Aramis' nails digging into his hips, and Aramis' lips, the squeezing clench of Aramis' body, and then--

And then Porthos' hand on Athos' lower back, guiding him carefully, changing his angle and dipping his hips. And Athos trusted Porthos with Aramis' body, with his own body, better than he trusted himself, so he moved, just as carefully, following his touch, until--

Until on a thrust in, Aramis choked on his own breath and his whole body went rigid under Athos, and Porthos laughed softly. "There it is."

"Oh, fuck," Aramis moaned, and Athos knew what Porthos had done, knew what he was doing, now. He did it again, holding Aramis' hips tight and finding that angle again, and Aramis gasped and arched, his face and chest flushing deep. 

"Found your sweet spot, huh?" Porthos asked, dragging his lips over Aramis' jawline. 

"Yes," Aramis gasped. His eyelids were fluttering, wanting to close, but he fought it, staring up at Athos as he slowly drew out. "Athos."

Athos smiled at him and gave him another sharp, jolting thrust. Aramis yelped, his whole body trembling, and he clutched wildly at Athos' shoulders. "Athos--Athos, _Athos,_ please--oh, please, Porthos--"

"You want it slow, babe?" Porthos murmured, kissing and nipping at the line of Aramis' jaw as Athos started up his slow, careful rhythm again at their new angle. Every time he pushed in, Aramis moaned and bucked, and a fresh wave of sweat and goosebumps had erupted on Athos' skin. "You want him to fuck you slow and careful, hitting your sweet spot 'til you come? Or do you want him to fuck you as hard as he can, slamming into you until you come and come and then he comes in you, too?"

Both Athos and Aramis couldn't hold back their groans at that, and Athos' hips slammed stuttering into Aramis' once, twice before he got his control back. "For the love of God, Porthos, warn a man," he gasped, stretching his body back over Aramis' and letting all their sweat-drenched skin press together.

Porthos pressed a line of kisses along Athos' braced arm. "What can I say, y'know, I'm eager like that."

"Can't blame him," Aramis said, sounding as winded as if he'd just been sprinting as he buried his face in Athos' neck. "You look so fucking amazing, your eyes are incredible--"

Athos sank his teeth into Aramis' earlobe, and Aramis broke off with a high moan and a jerk of his hips. "Stop complimenting me," Athos growled in his ear, "and tell me how you want to fuck you, Aramis."

"Oh, fuck," Aramis moaned, his arms coming around Athos' body and his hips pressing up into him. "Hard, _hard,_ I want it hard, I want what he said, I want you to fuck me into the sheets and I want you to come yelling my name--"

Porthos bit down on Athos' shoulder, stifling his moan in Athos' flesh, and Athos' whole body shuddered again--at the cascading heat of the pain, at Aramis' needy push into him. "You want that?" he said, his voice rougher than he'd ever heard it at a time like this, and he could feel the heat from Porthos' bite tightening at the base of his spine, and oh, he wasn't going to last at all. "You want me to fuck you like that?"

Aramis gazed up at him through the black fall of his eyelashes, the curls of his hair stuck to the edges of his face with sweat, his eyes fever-bright and his lips swollen red and plush. "I want that," he said, his hands digging into Athos' back and _tugging_ him forward. "I _want_ it, you heard him, I'm going to fucking fly apart if you don't--" And Aramis sucked in a gasp, throwing back his head, then, and he poured out in a rush, "Athos, fuck, _fuck,_ I'm begging you, just fuck me, just fuck me until we're all sweaty and exhausted and too sticky to sleep, I need it, I won't break, just _do it_ \--"

All Athos' self-control deserted him between one breath and the next. Aramis wanted him to. Aramis _wanted_ it. _I won't break, just do it._

He knew Aramis wouldn't, but _he_ might.

In the split-second between conscious thought and unconscious action, Athos decided that wouldn't be the worst way to go.

Then he braced himself, one hand next to Aramis' shoulder and the other tight on his hip, and finally started _moving,_ moving in short, sharp thrusts, slamming into Aramis as deep as he could each time, holding him still and forcing himself to focus on keeping the right angle. He was going to make Aramis come before he did. Aramis wanted it, so Athos would make sure he got every single thing he wanted before he could let go.

And Aramis melted beneath him in a way Athos had never seen him do before--he clung to Athos and let his legs fall open, and then just let Athos' body move his. Each of Athos' thrusts punched a sound from Aramis' chest, low at first, then slowly louder, higher, until Aramis was crying out on every single motion, hands slipping on Athos' sweat-slick skin as he tried to hold on. 

Athos didn't give him the opportunity to brace himself, didn't slow or stop. He felt like someone else entirely, and he liked it--finally, he was the one who was doing this to Aramis, making him feel like this. He loved the sounds, the heat and the sweat, the glazed look in Aramis' black eyes and the tightness of his mouth in its rictus of absolute ecstasy. 

He was giving this to Aramis. He was taking care of him, giving him what he wanted--what he needed.

He understood why Porthos loved being so dominant, now. It felt unbelievably good.

Aramis writhed underneath Athos' body as Athos fucked him mercilessly into the sheets, every muscle in him taut and trembling. His hair was soaked with sweat, his arms shook where he tried to hold on to Athos, and he was practically keening with need as he arched into the two of them. He'd twisted a hand into Porthos' hair and was holding him close as he arched uncontrollably into Athos, completely gone in his pleasure, completely selfish and completely beautiful. 

Athos felt like he could let go, too, watching him. He felt safe--he didn't feel broken, or afraid, he felt _safe_. It was fucking incredible, the way it let him spiral up and up instead of down and down, the way he could focus everything on making Aramis feel good and not have to worry about anything beyond this bed. Was this how it was supposed to feel, all the time? He couldn't remember ever feeling like this, even when he was healthy. It was _incredible._

Porthos reached down as Aramis dragged him closer, his hand snaking down Aramis' body to press at the top of his thigh--he held Aramis still, a little more open, for Athos' next driving thrust, and when it came, Aramis' body seized and his cry echoed in their tiny room. "Oh, _fuck!"_

"Working on it," Porthos gasped, and Athos could see his hips jerking against the hollow of Aramis' hip. The thought gave him another warm, heady surge of power--Porthos liked this, liked watching them, liked seeing what Athos did to Aramis. "You close, babe?"

"Fuck, fuck, yes," Aramis half-sobbed. "Fuck, please, I need it, Ath _os_ \--!" His voice broke on Athos' name as Athos slammed into him, turning the second half into a shout. Athos could feel Aramis' body clamping down around his cock, Aramis had to be close and Athos wasn't going to last much longer after--

He shifted his weight to his other arm, trusting Porthos to hold Aramis in place, and leaned up so he could push his hand into Aramis' hair. Aramis gasped, his head falling back as Athos pulled just lightly, and then they were staring at each other with wild, wide eyes, Aramis' face drawn tight and Athos staring down at him through the mess of his own hair.

"You're amazing like this," he gasped, dragging the words out from the depths of his thoughts, his heart, and forcing them out. "I can't believe it's you, I can't believe I get to--you're beautiful, you're perfect, are you going to come for me?"

Aramis let out a broken, agonized-sounding moan, shaking and fighting to keep his eyes open as he let Porthos hold him, as he arched up against every one of Athos' thrusts. "Yes, yes, _please,_ please, Athos, please make me come."

"What do you need?" Athos ground out--he could feel his own body tightening, he could feel his orgasm threatening but _no,_ Aramis first. "Tell me, anything, Aramis--"

Aramis' sounds were barely coherent, wild and uncontained, as Athos' heart hammered in his chest and his body ached and he didn't stop fucking Aramis, not for a second. "Ki--kiss me," Aramis gasped finally, writhing up into him. "Kiss me, it's you, it's _you,_ kiss me--"

Something broke in Athos' chest that might have been his heart, and all he could do was fall. He fell into Aramis' embrace, dove into him and kissed him--crushed his lips to Aramis' and kissed him with everything he had.

And when he drove his hips forward and felt Aramis shudder against him, felt Aramis' mouth drop open on a choked cry and Aramis' body twist up into his, Athos kept kissing him. He kept his lips to Aramis' and swallowed Aramis' cries, holding himself up as his rhythm grew ragged because he could _feel_ Aramis coming apart, it was incredible, it was--

All at once Aramis' body tightened in wracking, shivering waves around him, and heat splashed up between them. Aramis' fingers dug into his shoulders, and Athos let go.

Dimly he felt the raw scrape of sound in his own throat, felt the shivering tingle of Aramis' orgasm drawing his own out as he came harder than he probably ever had in his life--but mostly it was heat and pleasure flowing like lava over his skin, slow and sticky and burning everything in its path.

His sense of his body came back in pieces. His lips, still open and panting against Aramis'; his hand, holding him up, numb now; his hips rocking in tiny jerks against Aramis' ass, chasing aftershocks through both of their bodies; the rapidly cooling warmth of come on his skin, all over his stomach--too much for just Aramis, and Athos blinked his heavy eyes open and lifted his head to look down.

Aramis lay sprawled in the sheets, shivering slightly, still riding back onto the small, swiveling pushes of Athos' hips. His eyes were still closed, his face and chest flushed and his expression one of absolute contentment.

Porthos had his face buried in Aramis' shoulder, and he was gasping for breath. His softening cock lay nestled in the hollow of Aramis' hip, his come all over Aramis' torso and Athos' stomach, and Athos grinned dazedly.

He dropped his head back to Aramis' shoulder, the same one Porthos lay on, so his cheek rested against Aramis' skin and his lips pressed to Porthos' forehead. Ignoring the come, he let himself settle over Aramis, holding him and Porthos close. 

He couldn't remember having afterglow like this before. He couldn't imagine how he'd lived without it.

Long moments later, Aramis stirred beneath him and took a long breath. "That," Aramis said, his voice raw from screaming, "was probably the best sex I've ever had."

Every inch of Athos' skin flushed with pride, and he lifted his head. "Really?"

"Holy shit, yes," Aramis sighed happily, his fingers pushing through Athos' hair in idle caresses. He sounded so _relaxed,_ so matter-of-fact, and warmth unfurled in Athos' chest that had nothing to do with sex. "You have no idea how turned on I have to be to beg like that," Aramis went on, wriggling further into Athos and Porthos' holds, as if he weren't already as close as could be. "And you didn't even touch me." 

Athos blinked. "Yes, I did."

Aramis practically _purred_ as he pressed his body against theirs. "Not my cock."

When Athos finally caught his meaning, his whole body flushed again, and he felt Porthos grinning shamelessly. "Oh," he said, the lingering haze of his orgasm keeping any more words from connecting. 

"Came on just his cock, huh?" Porthos murmured, and Athos could feel his hand moving against Aramis' chest. "So fucking sensitive, I said."

"Mmhmm." Aramis sounded positively dreamy. "Nobody's ever fucked me that hard--I came for a whole minute, I think I have come in my _hair."_

"That could have been me," Porthos rumbled against Aramis' shoulder, sounding completely unapologetic. He didn't even pick his head up. Athos had to bury his face in Aramis' neck to hide his enormous, idiotic grin. 

"I can feel you smiling even when you do that," Aramis said, stroking the back of Athos' head with his fingertips. "Just pick your head up and let me see it."

And Athos was still too high on his orgasm to feel as shy or awkward as he normally would. So he lifted his head, propping his chin up on his wrist, and let Aramis see how incredibly, absurdly wide his grin was. 

Aramis beamed back at him, looking sex-drunk and sleepy, and he stretched up to press a soft, lingering kiss to Athos' lips. "Thank you," he murmured. "I love you."

Athos pressed into his touch, soaking it in. "I should thank you," he said, stroking his free hand over Aramis side. "For--letting me do that for you."

Aramis' smile slowly widened, his eyes soft in a way that Athos would have never imagined before now. "I suppose that is one way to see it," he said, something in his voice making Athos suddenly sure that Aramis had _hoped_ he'd see it that way. He was fiercely glad not to have disappointed him. 

With a contented sigh, Porthos lifted his head finally, smiling with heavy eyes at Athos. "Yeah, it feels good."

"How are you?" Athos asked him, letting just a hint of aristocratic archness slip in. He was, possibly, literally high on the two of them. He felt like fucking _giggling,_ for God's sake. "I hope we didn't neglect you, but you seem to have made the most of it."

Aramis laughed delightedly, and Porthos propped himself up on one arm. "You are a fucking shit," he informed Athos, reaching for him, and Athos nearly laughed out loud as Porthos dragged him into a deep, sloppy kiss. 

"Get me some water and a washcloth, and _then_ come cuddle," Aramis said, nudging at them. "Make out later, I'm sticky."

Porthos gave Athos a mock-unimpressed look as they drew apart. "Best sex of his life," he drawled, "and less than a minute later he's bossing us around again."

Athos ducked his head, his grin taking over his whole face again, and Aramis made a happy sound, stretching up to kiss him again. 

When they broke apart, though, their torsos definitely _did_ stick together a bit, and Athos grimaced. "Oh. That itches."

"Yeah, this kind of sex is messy," Aramis sighed, stretching like a cat beneath him. 

The both of them gasped at that, then, because Athos hadn't pulled out of Aramis just yet, and _oh,_ even after coming, that was a good motion.

"Shit," Aramis half-laughed, his eyes sparking wide and bright. "Please, before my cock gets any ideas, I can't handle round two yet."

"Sorry," Athos said instantly, carefully shifting his weight and reaching down between them. 

"Don't apologize," Aramis laughed, and a wistful little sound escaped him when Athos slowly, carefully pulled out. "Oh," he sighed, turning his face into Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos hushed him gently, stroking his hair.

"Are you okay?" Athos asked him, throwing the condom somewhere in the direction of his trash can--he didn't care about aim, he was too preoccupied with leaning forward to stroke Aramis' sides again. That had not been a happy kind of sigh.

Aramis smiled up at him, tracing his fingers over Athos' thigh, still pressed against his own. "Just a little lonely, after having you there and feeling so good."

"Feels empty?" Porthos murmured, holding him close, and Aramis sighed and nodded. 

"I'm sorry," Athos said, leaning down to kiss him again. "I'd stay in you forever if I could."

"There's an idea," Aramis said, and he smiled, tracing the tip of his nose along Athos'.

Porthos pushed himself upright and pressed a kiss to Athos' shoulder. "You two are too fucking cute to stop, just let me handle the cleanup."

Athos vaguely felt like he should protest--he was so used to the one putting his own wishes aside for everyone else, but his self-sacrificing sense wasn't so much rearing its head as lifting it, glancing around, and settling back down with a grunt. "If you say so," he said, pressing another featherlight kiss to Aramis' lips.

Aramis' smile widened. "Porthos, I think we may have finally gotten him to relax," he said, something very much like awe in his tone.

"Fuckin' finally," Porthos laughed, dragging on his boxers and grabbing a washcloth from the closet. "Don't move, I'll be right back."

They didn't. Even though the sun had set while they'd been fucking, and the shadows had started to creep in and set the room in blue-gray hues, Athos didn't want to move to turn the lamp on. From the way Aramis' arms had settled around his back, and the lazy way he brushed kisses over Athos' lips and cheeks and eyelids, he had the feeling Aramis didn't want to, either.

"This is so nice," Aramis sighed, tilting his head back as Athos kissed his jaw, his neck. "I can't believe we're doing this."

Athos sighed and rested his face in the join of Aramis' neck and shoulder. He was still feeling softhearted and honest, and without really thinking about it, he let himself talk. "I still feel like I'm going to wake up," he confessed, his voice just loud enough for Aramis to hear. "Having you, and having Porthos. Being so easy together. It's like it can't be real."

Aramis' arms tightened around him, heedless of the stickiness drying on their skin. "I've been so scared of this for so long," he said, just as softly. "I keep thinking I'm going to say or do something that'll drive you both away."

"Never," Athos said instantly, lifting his head. He shifted up onto his arms again, holding himself up over Aramis so they could look at each other. "I may have no fucking clue what I'm doing, Aramis, but I _know_ that there's nothing you could ever do to make us want you any less."

Aramis' eyes shone in the fading light, and his smile seemed less sure around the edges. "Even all the things I did in the past few weeks?"

Athos dropped his forehead against Aramis'. There were so many things he wanted to say that scared the shit out of him, and he wondered if Aramis could feel his suddenly pounding heart. He needed to say them, though. Aramis seemed so fragile right now. "I never wanted you any less," he said, gazing down at Aramis' face. "I was scared, and I was lonely, and I was upset, but I never wanted you less. Not at all."

Aramis' smile trembled. "I hurt you so much, though," he said, that note of pianful uncertainty back. 

Athos sighed and pushed Aramis' hair back from his face. "I don't know who in your life made you think that would be enough to push us away for good," he said softly, "but Porthos and I are different. Do you really think that it would have hurt as much as it did if we didn't still care?"

Aramis opened his mouth, then closed it. His smile was tremulous and warm, an overwhelmed little thing, and Athos pressed his lips to it, just once. Then he drew up and smiled back, his fingertips tracing over Aramis' face. It felt so good to be the one doing the comforting--to feel comforted himself, in doing it.

Aramis half-laughed, reaching upto wipe at his eyes. "I get a little weepy after getting fucked sometimes," Aramis half-laughed, reacheing up to wipe his eyes. "I promise it's not just--this."

"I wouldn't mind if it was," Athos reminded him, settling himself more firmly over Aramis' body. He had a feeling Aramis would want the reassuring weight. "You've been so very patient with all my things, after all. Do you need anything?"

Aramis sighed with contentment, and he wrapped his arms around Athos' waist, settling them there at the small of his back and hugging him close. "Just this," he said softly. "Just you."

Porthos came back to find them like that, still wrapped close, still holding each other in the darkening room. "Look at you two," he said softly, and Athos could hear the laugh in his voice. He turned his head toward the sound, and when Porthos turned on the desk lamp, Athos' heart lifted at the smile he saw on Porthos' face.

Aramis only shifted when Porthos sat down on the bed beside them, tilting his face towards Porthos with a hum of greeting. Porthos kissed him, then tapped Athos gently on the shoulder. Taking the hint, Athos rolled half-off Aramis, freeing their chests for Porthos to clean off--but staying pressed all along Aramis' side, just to be close. 

"You're both quiet," Porthos said softly as he drew the washcloth over Aramis' stomach. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Aramis said, reaching out. He traced his thumb over Porthos' shoulder, his smile back, gentle and lazy. "I'm still having a little trouble believing this is real, is all." 

How he could say such vunerable things without seeming nervous at all, Athos would never know. He really did admire Aramis sometimes.

Porthos gave Aramis a look--that wonderfully fond mix of affection and exasperation, that he seemed to reserve just for the two of them. "I guess," he said, shifting closer so he could reach Athos, too, "it's gonna take us all a little while to stop saying that, huh?"

"It seems so," Athos said. His eyes fell half-shut in pleasure at the touch of warm, damp terrycloth, with Porthos' reassuring surety behind it. 

"Lucky we've got a week," Porthos said dryly.

Aramis laughed out loud. "Yes." His laugh broke off on a sigh as Porthos tugged his thighs apart slightly, and Athos lay down beside him again as Porthos gently dipped the washcloth between Aramis' legs.

"I'm never gonna get over how sensitive you are," Porthos said, his voice warm, as he rubbed a soothing hand over Aramis' thigh. "You're fucking poetry, Aramis, everything about you."

Aramis beamed up at him, something almost helpless in his smile, and Athos knew that look. Porthos could sometimes just be--too much. Athos chuckled softly, pressing closer, and rested his head on Aramis' shoulder. "He makes it so easy," he said to Aramis. 

"He really does," Aramis sighed. "Porthos, come lay down, I miss you."

Porthos' grin widened, softening into something sweeter, something that made Athos' whole body weak and shaky. "Can't refuse an offer like that," he said, and crawled onto the bed with them. 

Aramis clearly had something particular in mind, and Porthos and Athos patiently bore his maneuvering. When they were all settled, Porthos lay on his back on the bed, and Athos and Aramis sprawled on top of him, each of their heads resting on one of his shoulders. It was the perfect way for them all to hold each other, Athos realized, and he let his body relax into it with a sigh.

"Perfect," Aramis murmured, his hand moving slowly back and forth on the dip of Athos' back. "Absolutely perfect."

"Yeah," Porthos said, his voice drowsy. "I got good memories of cuddling like this."

"Oh?" Athos asked him, tilting his head to press his cheek more firmly against Porthos' shoulder. 

"When I was a kid," Porthos said, his voice far away. "Me and Flea, and Charon. Before we found the house. I was the warm one even before I hit puberty, y'know, I was a big kid. So I always had to be on the bottom, but. Still, it was always good when we were like this, because it meant we were all together."

Aramis and Athos' eyes met over Porthos' chest, and Athos saw Aramis' dark eyes turn liquid as Porthos spoke. Aramis was a softie, they knew this, but even Athos felt a little bit of a pang at that. Porthos talked about his childhood so rarely--it felt important, that he brought it up, unprovoked, now.

"I'm glad they had you," Athos said, tightening the arm he had around Porthos. 

"I'm glad we have you, too," Aramis murmured, turning his head to kiss Porthos' chest.

"Yeah," Porthos said, and Athos felt Porthos' body relax even more underneath him. "Yeah, it's good."

Within a few moments, Porthos' breathing evened out under their heads, and Athos and Aramis shared a fond smile. They held hands over his chest, their fingers linked together, and for the first time in his life, Athos found peace in silence. 

Neither of them spoke--for one thing, they'd wake Porthos, and for another, it just didn't feel necessary. Their hands lay entwined over Porthos' chest, and they could just look at each other. That felt like enough tonight.

Athos must have dozed off at some point--he came back to himself to the sound of their quiet conversation, and Porthos' chest moving under his cheek. He made a drowsy questioning sound and lifted his head, and Aramis' fingers squeezed his.

"It's seven," Aramis said softly. "We were hungry--you want to order in?"

Oh, right. Food. Athos yawned and stretched, half-sitting up. "Yeah."

Porthos' arm curled lazily around his waist. "Pizza, Thai?"

"Pizza," Aramis said firmly, leaning over the side of the bed and digging around in the puddles of clothing. There were clearly forming bruises on his shoulders, a few scratches down his sides, and Athos felt a sated, lazy smile slip acrosss his face.

"Perv," Porthos said with a grin, following his gaze, and Aramis looked interestedly over his shoulder. 

"Did someone call me?"

That startled another laugh from Athos, and he didn't miss the dopey-eyed looks Porthos and Aramis shared at that. "I think I enjoy the marking thing, too," he said, settling back down against Porthos' side.

"Oh, good," Aramis said, his teeth flashing in a smile. "Compatible kinks are always nice." He came up from his reach with Athos' phone in hand, and tossed it over to him. "Call it in?"

Athos blinked at the plastic brick in his hand. It didn't come on when he pushed the buttons, and he wondered if he was _that_ sex-hazed that he couldn't remember how to unlock his own phone, or if--no, wait, when was the last time he'd charged it? "I haven't plugged this in since Friday morning," he said finally. "Use yours."

Aramis laughed, looking around the floor. Then his grin turned slowly to puzzlement, and then annoyance. "Oh, fuck, it's in my room," he sighed, pushing himself up off the bed and grabbing a pair of boxers off the floor. (They were Athos', but he wasn't going to say anything.) "Be right back."

"I can't believe how dead to the world we've been," Porthos said as Aramis slipped out. Athos perfectly understood the mix of worry and pride in Porthos' voice. "Literally, the world could end outside today and we really wouldn't know at all."

"Not until the condoms run out," Athos said without thinking.

Porthos was still laughing when Aramis came back with his own phone--huge, gasping, grinning laughs that made Athos' body shake where it was still pressed against him. But Athos elbowed him silent when he saw the frown on Aramis' face. He did not want to see any frowns on Aramis' face, not ever again. "Problem?"

"Not really," Aramis said, but his brows were still knit together as he grimaced at his phone. "I need to call a few people."

Porthos sat up, worry plain on his face, and reached out to Aramis with one hand. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Aramis sighed as he sat down, looking a little guilty. "Constance checking on me, Sister Beth asking why I missed Mass, and five missed calls from Ninon." He glanced up at them, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. "Mind if I-"

"No, go ahead," Athos said and settled down beside Porthos again. "If you don't mind that we're listening--"

Aramis' smile flashed, then, and Athos felt Porthos' tension ease. "Of course not," Aramis said, and lifted his phone to his ear. As it rang, he shifted on the bed to lay closer to them, and Porthos hooked an arm around him and drew him close. 

The room was quiet, and Aramis' head had ended up between their chests, so Athos heard distinctly when Ninon picked up. 

_"Oh my_ fucking _God, Aramis, where the fuck have you_ been? _You complete fucking_ asshole, _I thought you were dead, I was going to call fucking campus security if you hadn't picked up by tonight, what the_ shit _have you been doing with yourself?"_

Athos nearly choked trying to keep his laugh contained. He'd never heard cultured, elegant Ninon swear so much. He felt Porthos trembling with suppressed laughter, too, and Aramis elbowed them. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry, my phone's been in my room since last night."

 _"And where the fuck were you, then?"_ Ninon demanded. 

Aramis lay his head back on Porthos' chest, his smile beatific. "Athos' room."

_"What."_

"With him and Porthos."

The silence was glorious. Aramis grinned up at the two of them. 

_"I,"_ Ninon said at length, _"am going to fucking murder you three. You've been getting your brains fucked out for twenty hours straight, haven't you? No, of course you have, that's why you sound so smug and why you forgot to take your fucking phone out of your room. They've just fucked the brains right out of your head."_

Aramis closed his eyes, beaming. "Sorry."

 _"You fucking ass,"_ Ninon sighed. Her voice softened slightly. _"We've been so worried about you, you know. Constance was going out of her mind."_

Aramis sighed, curling onto his side on Porthos' chest and reaching out for Athos. "I know, I'm going to talk to her. I'm sorry, Ninon, really. I've just been--caught up."

 _"I'm sure,"_ she said. _"You talked, then, the three of you? You're okay?"_ The concern in her voice was touching, Athos thought, a small curl of affection threading through his chest.

"Yes," Aramis assured her. He closed his eyes, sighing slightly, as Porthos ran gentle fingers through his hair. "We're so okay, Ninon. We've never been better." Athos squeezed his hand, and Aramis smiled, his eyes fluttering open to fix him with that absurdly soft, gentle look that made Athos want to shout poetry from the top of the bell tower.

 _"Well, good,"_ she said. _"Well, I'll let you get back to your rampant fucking, you can tell me all about it when I see you next week."_

"Okay," Aramis said, closing his eyes and turning his face into Porthos' touch. "Happy Thanksgiving, Ninon."

_"You, too. Tell them hi for me."_

Aramis' smile curved lazily at the corners. "Will do."

"That's sweet," Porthos said, as Aramis hung up. Aramis flashed him an interested look, and Porthos shrugged. "I mean, that they were worried."

The wicked curve of Aramis' lips softened slightly as he looked at the screen of his phone. "Yeah."

"I'm glad they were there for you," Athos said, his hand settling warm against Aramis' side. "When we couldn't be."

Aramis' hand drifted down to cover Athos. "Good friends."

"I'm glad you've got people that aren't us," Porthos said, stroking Aramis' hair. "We've all gotta get better at that. We don't want to be 'that couple' with no other friends who are always joined at the fucking hip." He paused, considering, then added, "Or always joined because our hips are fucking."

Aramis laughed, burying his face in Porthos' chest, and his fingers curled tight around Athos'. Porthos grinned at Athos, and Athos tucked his face into Porthos' side, savoring the warmth, the nearness.

Aramis fired off quick texts to Beth and Constance, then, and then he and Porthos settled into their time-honored tradition of bickering about what to get on the pizza. Only this time, their thinly-veiled sniping ended in Aramis tackling Porthos to the bed and tickling him mercilessly until Porthos agreed _fine fine fucking fine we will get the damn pineapple just stop._

"And here I hoped you two would be able to resolve your differences maturely from now on," Athos drawled, leaning up against the wall and watching them with a smile. Honestly, he was fine with this alteration to tradition.

Porthos grinned up at him, curling a possessive hand around Aramis' ankle. "Yeah, but you know there's a difference between 'mature' and 'adult.'"

Aramis finished punching in the order on his phone and tossed it aside. He stretched out over Porthos with a wicked smile. "I have one idea for differences we can resolve in an _adult_ way," he murmured, rolling his hips against Porthos' for emphasis, and Porthos drew him down to his chest with a laugh. Athos watched, enjoying the feeling of his heart flying in his chest, until they reached out in tandem and dragged him down, as well.

Athos was trailing a line of kisses down Porthos' back when Aramis' phone rang. Porthos lay flat over Aramis, nibbling at his breastbone and ribs, and Aramis had both hands wound tightly into Porthos' hair, swearing softly in Spanish--so Athos was the one who reared back and answered the pizza delivery call.

"Not it," Aramis gasped the moment he hung up. 

"Not it," Porthos mumbled against Aramis' chest, and Athos glowered at them.

"I am _just_ as naked as the both of you," he grumbled, and leaned pointedly back over Porthos to return to his task.

"We'll make it up to you?" Aramis wheedled, looking up at Athos through his eyelashes. 

"That look stopped working on me years ago," Athos informed him, pressing a kiss to Porthos' shoulderblade. 

Porthos hummed and arched back into Athos' body. "If you go," he said, rolling his head back onto Athos' shoulder, "I'll blow you when we get back."

Athos stared at him. Porthos smirked, and dimly Athos was aware of all the blood in his body flooding _down._

And Aramis laughed long and loud, his eyes wicked. "Well, now he's rock-hard, Porthos, he can't go downstairs like that."

"Is this how it's going to be from now on?" Athos said not a little breathlessly, his eyes locked on Porthos. "Trading sexual favors for every little thing?"

Porthos arched an eyebrow at him, his crooked smile so unbelievably endearing. "You complaining?"

Athos pressed a swift kiss to his lips and scrambled off the bed to grab pajama pants. "I didn't say that."

Their laughter followed him out into the hall, and Athos sped down the stairs faster than he probably ever had in his life. He couldn't remember the last time he was hurrying for something _good,_ rather than out of fear for consequences, or because the world had seemed too exhausting to drag himself out of bed for long enough to make him late for something.

He was incredibly abrupt with the poor driver as he grabbed the pizzas from the hood of the man's car--but then he crammed twenty more dollars than they were worth into his hand, so it probably evened out in the grand scheme of things. He really didn't care if the local Dominos remembered him as the disheveled boy in pajama pants and a hoodie trying to hide an obvious erection, as long as they also remembered he tipped well. His family bought privacy in all sorts of ways, he thought dryly as he took the elevator back up.

Aramis and Porthos had flipped positions when he got back, and Aramis looked up from Porthos' stomach with a laugh as Athos unceremoniously dropped the pizza boxes in a pile and stripped off his hoodie and pants.

Porthos grinned lazily up at him. "Thought you said you were hungry."

"I have my priorities," Athos shot back, climbing back onto the bed. 

Porthos shifted up effortlessly onto his knees and caught Athos around the waist. He pulled him close, like they were dancing, and kissed him, going straight to deep and wet, with no teasing. Athos was completely hard again by the time they pulled apart, and Aramis stroking both of their sides making appreciative sounds wasn't helping at all. He was panting in a completely undignified way, and Porthos' hands cradling his head, in the steady way they always did, only made him even dizzier with lust. "Porthos," Athos said, his hands tightening on Porthos' waist.

"Don't tease him, Porthos," Aramis said gently, butting his head against Porthos', and Porthos smiled. 

"I'm not gonna break him, don't worry," he said. And Athos knew Porthos wouldn't; he knew Porthos would be good to him. So he moved instantly when Porthos' hands tightened on his waist, as he tugged Athos closer, turning him and pushing him gently until he could lay back on the pillows. 

"You want me to make it last?" Porthos asked. His grin curved up in a flash of teeth, and Athos was utterly fucking gone.

Athos swallowed hard, reaching up to grip Porthos' forearm and Aramis' hand, grounding himself. _Yes, forever--no, I can't wait, I just want--_ He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and shook his head. "Next time?" he asked, his voice shaking despite his best efforts. "We--we'll have time, won't we?"

Porthos' grin widened slowly, and he and Aramis shared a look.

"Next time," Aramis promised, stretching out beside Athos, and took his own deep kiss. "Oh, my love, we'll have all the time in the world," he said, tracing Athos' lips with his own.

"Just lay back and enjoy, then," Porthos said with a playful, heated smile, and slid himself down Athos' body. Athos' body gave an all-over shudder as Porthos settled between his legs, and Porthos ran a calming hand over his thigh. "How long's it been since anybody--?"

Athos closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. "Four years, give or take...?"

Porthos pressed a kiss to his hipbone, and Aramis ran a hand back and forth over his chest. Athos let himself relax into their touches, told his body to calm instead of tense up, and Porthos kissed a little closer in, as if in reward. "That's it, babe," Porthos murmured. "Just let me give you this."

Athos sucked in a deep breath and relaxed the death grip he had on both of them. "You know I have a hard time just accepting things," he said, managing a half-smile, and Aramis smiled gently down at him, stroking his cheek. 

"We know," he said. "Let us give you some practice."

Athos closed his eyes and pushed a hand down to rest on Porthos' shoulder. Porthos hummed gently against his thigh, and Athos shivered. It felt better this time--a pleasant, excited kind of shiver, as opposed to the tense anticipation of the last one.

"That's it," Porthos said again, grinning up at him, and lifted his head.

Athos gasped and arched forward when Porthos closed his mouth around him. His body curled up off the bed, pushing into his touch, and Aramis caught him, held him close as he shook.

"Oh," he gasped, tightening his hand on Porthos' shoulder. "Oh, _oh."_

Porthos' eyes met his, and he was smiling in his eyes, his lips curling up just that little bit, and--and yes, he should be smiling, this was _fun,_ wasn't it? Porthos was having fun sucking him off, and Athos really should be having fun, too. This wasn't life or death, he reminded himself--every single moment didn't have the risk of bringing everything down around his ears anymore. 

Porthos had promised him this so he'd go get a pizza, for fuck's sake. 

Athos let out a breathless huff that might have been a laugh, and Porthos' eyes crinkled at the corners as he sucked him. Aramis laughed softly against his neck, stroking his shoulder, kissing the soft spot beneath his ear, and Athos couldn't help himself--he laughed again, his stomach muscles jerking and fluttering as Porthos worked his jaw and bobbed his head, his eyes on Athos the whole time, and Porthos' eyes were wide and incredulous and loving, and Aramis was holding him, his own laughing breaths hot on Athos' neck, and it was--

It was so fucking _happy._

Athos was still laughing as he came, his face pressed to Aramis' shoulder and one hand tight in Porthos' hair. His whole body shivered with laughter, with the rush of his orgasm, and he was utterly boneless with euphoria as the tide receded.

Aramis tugged Athos back until they collapsed back on the bed, Athos held safely to Aramis' chest, and he just let Aramis move him. He could still feel himself smiling, half-laughing as he caught his breath, and Aramis cradled him close as Porthos drew up and wiped his mouth.

"Wow," Porthos said, half-laughing himself. "Really?"

Athos nodded, letting his head roll back, the unfamiliar ache of a smile on his face curling warm in his stomach where arousal had been. "I guess so," he said, too relaxed and happy to fight it for now.

"Holy God, you're so beautiful when you laugh," Aramis said, curling up beside him. He sounded breathless, delighted, and Athos arched into him with a soft sigh. 

"You make it easy," he said, before his brain could catch up with his mouth and tell it to stop. 

Aramis' startled breath and Porthos' tight fingers on his hips made him realize what he'd said. Some part of Athos knew he should maybe be worried about that--it was dangerously close to confession, to saying words he wasn't sure he ever could again. 

But it was true, so.

"You do," he said, lifting his eyes. He looked up at both of them, so they'd know he meant it.

Porthos pressed a kiss to his stomach, his eyes unbearably soft. Aramis hummed softly against his neck, settling closer to him, and Athos closed his eyes to savor it.

They ate in bed naked, all their limbs still tangled and crossed, and for the first time in years, Athos didn't think about crumbs in the bed. He didn't think about dirty hands grabbing for slices, or worry about how this meant he wouldn't have eaten any vegetables all day. He didn't worry about how they were all going to fit, or if Porthos really hadn't wanted the peppers and was just humoring him and Aramis, or if Aramis was uncomfortable with the way Athos and Porthos kept just _touching_ him, keeping their hands curled loosely around his ankle or pressing their shoulders to his. 

It was late by the time they stopped trading lazy kisses and lay down to sleep, wrapped around each other like the night before.

And Athos didn't think, for one second, that they wouldn't be there when he woke.

\- - -

"Sleeping," Athos mumbled into his pillow when the soft press of kisses down his spine dragged him from unconsciousness.

"Not anymore," Porthos murmured against his back. 

Athos didn't even bother fighting his own smile as his body slowly came awake. It was unbearably sentimental, just smiling like a fool every time one of them got within an inch of him, but--he couldn't quite bring himself to try and censor it. For one thing, he had a feeling becoming purposefully stoic would incredibly hurt their feelings, and for the other... 

He just didn't care as much anymore.

With a heavy, feigned sigh, Athos rolled over, reaching up to settle his arms around Porthos' shoulders. Porthos' hair was rumpled from the pillow, his eyes sleep-crusted but bright, and Athos hoped, for one fragile, aching moment, that he'd wake up to this smile every morning from now on. 

"I'm up," he said at last, after his throat had loosened enough for him to speak. He knew he wasn't anywhere near as close to his usual drawl as he wanted to be, but he was sure Porthos wouldn't tease him for it. "Something incredibly urgent?"

Porthos cast a sly smile to his left, and Athos glanced over.

"Morning," Aramis said, watching them with heavy-lidded eyes and a lazy smile. "Sorry, you just looked so gorgeous in your sleep." The covers were pushed down to Aramis' thighs, and he was jerking himself off slowly--to the sight, Athos realized abruptly, of Porthos on all fours over Athos himself, and the realization coiled hot in his stomach.

"Did you wake me up just so you could get off to him on top of me?" Athos managed to say, his voice tight from a very different kind of throat-closing sensation. "I could have stayed asleep for that."

 _"Jesus,"_ Porthos groaned, dropping his head to Athos' shoulder. "Shit, if I wasn't fucking hard before, I am now."

Athos was still half-asleep, and it was a dreamlike feeling of _power_ that curled with the heat in his blood at that. "You have my permission to ravish me in my sleep any time you want," Athos yawned, stretching underneath Porthos and barely concealing the grin that was threatening to break across his face. He'd forgotten he could tease and play sexy, too.

Aramis didn't hold back his own smile at all. "I'll keep that in mind," he purred, sliding closer. "Can we ravish you now, though?"

Athos huffed his best bored, aristocratic sigh and lay back in his sheets, arching an unimpressed eyebrow up at Porthos. Porthos stared back, his own eyebrows raised, and Athos stifled a grin again. He couldn't remember feeling this playful with anything remotely connected to sex before. "If you're quick about it, I suppose."

He held Porthos' incredulous gaze for barely ten seconds before he cracked, his smile bursting forward and making his cheeks hurt.

Porthos' own grin breaking was bright and beautiful, and he rolled his eyes, pinning Athos' body down to the sheets with his own. "Oh, I'm sorry, are we _boring_ you?"

"Terribly," Athos drawled, hooking his legs around Porthos' waist and pulling him in. "You woke me up for sex and you haven't even kissed me yet."

Aramis crowed with laughter, stretching up towards him, and pressed a sloppy good morning kiss to his lips. "You're an asshole," he said against Athos' lips, still smiling. "I did wake up with thoughts about actually doing things today, but--can we, just, first--?"

"Did you dream about us again?" Porthos said, propping himself up with a hand beside Athos' head. His other hand traced over Aramis' shoulder, and for some reason Athos couldn't take his eyes off Porthos' fingertips as they swirled over Aramis' skin. 

Aramis' eyelashes fluttered, and he sighed, pressing even closer against Athos' side. "I can still feel what we did yesterday," he said, his voice thickening, too. "How the fuck could I _not?"_

"You want in the middle again?" Porthos asked with a wicked grin, and flattened his hand against Aramis' shoulder--so Aramis could feel his warmth, his steadiness, Athos knew.

Aramis' smile turned sly. "We did that yesterday," he hedged, rolling his hips against Athos' side. "I think this morning I just want to watch you two together?"

Athos and Porthos shared a look. 

Then Athos nearly broke his front teeth as he surged up to kiss Porthos the same instant Porthos dove into him. They both had to laugh shakily, then, breaking apart after their teeth clacked together, and Porthos took Athos' face in hand and held him steady to be kissed properly--though they both had to hiss in breaths when Porthos set his own hips rocking down against Athos'. 

They'd slept naked again, Athos realized dazedly, and he flexed his thighs where they were still wrapped around Porthos' waist, pulling him closer. Were they ever going to wear clothes alone togther again? Were they going to have any time, ever, where they weren't constantly turned on and touching and driving each other wild?

Would it be so bad if they _weren't,_ though, he thought as Porthos swore and braced himself, reaching between them, and Aramis moaned softly as he rubbed himself off against the curve where Athos' thigh met his waist. Because this--this was actually, pretty much, completely perfect.

"Shit," he choked as Porthos wrapped his unbearably hot hand around both of their cocks. "Shit shit _shit,_ Porthos--"

"I know," Porthos gasped, his voice unraveling. "I know, it's okay." They'd both just woken up, and Athos' self-control was shit when he was tired, and he could feel his orgasm rearing up and threatening to crash over him--but that was fine, it was, there would be time enough and again for them to do it all over again.

"Did you mean it, Athos," Aramis said, his voice raspy and trembling as he bucked against him, "about--when you're asleep--were you joking, or--?"

"Oh, fuck," Athos groaned, falling back into the sheets and hiking his leg even higher up on Porthos' waist. Porthos growled and leaned down to press a biting kiss to his collarbone, and Athos most decidedly did _not_ yowl like a fucking cat in heat, arching up into him. "I--I don't know, I don't know half the things I want to do with you two, but--" 

He gasped in a deep breath, the cold air searing his lungs, and managed to grind out, "But--maybe, maybe? Just to wake up surrounded by the two of you, knowing you're here and making me feel so fucking good all the time, always--" God, it felt fucking _filthy,_ it felt positively fucking pornographic to imagine the two of them touching him in his sleep, but he felt his cock jerk against Porthos' and he couldn't deny that the _idea_ was arousing as all hell even if he had no idea if he'd actually be brazen enough to let them--

"Oh, shit," Aramis moaned against his shoulder. "Oh, fuck, would you--would you let me suck you awake, could I--?"

Athos nearly sobbed, his body starting to shake as he twisted underneath Porthos to get closer to Aramis. He couldn't even speak, his voice was totally gone, lost to the sense of the two of them and the images in his fucking head. How was he this fucking close, this _desperate_ for them already, just from the words, from the thought?

Porthos drove his hips down and twisted his wrist and whispered in Athos' ear, "Wake up to his mouth around you and my cock in your ass?"

Athos gave a completely undignified yelp and came on the spot.

He jerked and shuddered and came and _came_ in Porthos' hand, as Porthos thrust jerkily against him and Aramis groaned low and long--his head was spinning, his body twitching uncontrollably, and _fuck fuck fucking fuck,_ how had that even happened? When their come mixed on his skin, hot and wet and perfect, he blinked his eyes open and stared fixedly at the blurry ceiling above his head.

Holy shit.

"Um," Porthos panted finally, his chest heaving, and he still held himself up over Athos with one arm. "So, uh, if that's something you actually want--that was sort of just me indulging my dirty talk thing, I don't know if I could actually fuck somebody who was asleep, not even if they gave me permission first."

Athos reached a clumsy hand up to pat reassuringly at Porthos' head and shoulder, words still deserting him, and both Porthos and Aramis chuckled. Athos managed a smile, closing his eyes again. He still felt a little shell-shocked.

"Jesus Christ," Aramis said, sounding just as winded as the two of them. "That--that was--"

"Over incredibly quickly, sorry," Athos said at last, his voice creeping back as a thin, cracking thing. "In my defense, Porthos started it."

"Yeah, I did," Porthos said, and kissed him. "Are you--um--"

"Fine," Athos said, his voice distant to his own ears. "We've just never talked about it before, and that was a hell of a mental image, suddenly."

"Yes," Aramis said, and then the only sound in the room was the soft slick touch of lips and tongue. Athos blinked his heavy eyelids open, and Aramis and Porthos were kissing inches from his face. 

God, what a sight they were.

Porthos and Aramis broke apart after a few long, leisurely moments, and Porthos rested his forehead against Aramis'. It looked so sweet, Aramis' sharp-boned frame supporting Porthos' breadth, and it made Athos' still-racing heart throb in his chest. 

"I'm sorry for springing that on you," Porthos said then, and he turned more fully back to Athos. A little dip between his brows said louder than words that he thought he'd done something wrong. "There are--" Porthos half-laughed, awkwardly ducking his head. "A lot of things I want to do to both of you, but--in your own time."

"And we have time," Aramis reassured him, laying his hand on Porthos' arm. Aramis' face was as open as Athos had ever seen it, and it warmed Athos all over. Aramis believed them, now. They had time--they were in this together. 

And Aramis had, apparently, exactly no sex hangups to speak of, so he was probably golden. 

Athos smiled shakily up at the two of them. "Then I, uh, maybe need to wait on that one," he said, a little apologetically. He hated always having to be the dead weight on the two of them. "But I do," he went on, feeling his goddamn blush start up again, "really do--want to keep it on, um. On the table."

It did things to him--the idea, the thought of having Aramis or Porthos so close they were literally inside of him. It made his skin feel tight and warm--and he remembered how much Aramis had liked it, last night, and how good it had felt to fuck him like that. He wanted to have that experience with them, but he also wondered if maybe he should wait until he was actually able to verbally express feelings without having a panic attack. 

But it also felt good, in its own way, to be able to ask for more time, and know that they'd give it.

"That's fine," Porthos said hurriedly, stroking his hands over Athos' arms. "Completely." His eyes were wide and bright, his hopeful little smile making Athos' heart shiver in his chest, and he really couldn't look at that for too long without wanting to cry. 

So he gave Porthos his most reassuring smile, and dragged Aramis close in turn. Aramis purred like a happy cat and snuggled closer, and Athos pushed a caressing hand through his hair. "You said something about plans for the day?"

"Oh, yeah," Aramis said, stretching between them. "We should get out, maybe go for a run or go down to the studio. And then I was thinking we should go grocery shopping so we literally don't have to leave the floor for the rest of the week." He smiled against Athos' chest. "I want to be as naked as possible for the next five days."

Porthos and Athos shared a look over his head. Athos lifted his eyebrows, feeling his own grin starting at the corners of his mouth, and Porthos' smile dawned wide and infectious. "Sounds like a plan," he said, and pulled the two of them upright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on [tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cooking is an emotionally fraught endeavor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for being so patient while I drifted off for _Mars_! We're back to the boys, bless them. This Thanksgiving week of theirs is very much important to me for establishing how they're going to be together, so we linger here a little longer. 
> 
> Warning in this chapter for references to mediocre mental health care, discussions of mental illness (mostly in the abstract), mentions of period-typical racism and classism, and Athos' parents' continued emotional distance and shittiness.

With Aramis returned to his rightful place between them, Athos could have run a hundred miles, he was so light. Porthos, on his other side, clearly felt the same--his stride was longer, brisker, with a bounce that Porthos rarely had while running. 

Aramis, for his part, seemed to barely touch the ground, with his smile huge and glowing and lighting up his whole face. In the late morning light, with his breath in a cloud turning gold around his face, he was even more gorgeous than ever. Athos could barely look at him for the way it made him itch to get his hands on him again. 

Once again, Porthos was clearly of the same mind. Because as they finished, coming around the back side of the library, Porthos deliberately slowed. 

Aramis slowed, too, looking inquiringly to him--then crowed with surprised laughter as Porthos grabbed him by the arm and whirled him around. His delighted laugh turned to a breathless moan as Porthos pinned him to the brick of the library's back wall.

Porthos took Aramis' face in his hands, and Aramis arched into him and pressed up to meet Porthos' lips in a hungry, seeking kiss. Porthos pressed closer, bracing himself with one hand as he crowded Aramis' body against the wall, and Aramis threw his arms around Porthos' neck and moaned even louder.

Athos leaned against the wall beside them, his sore muscles enjoying the break. The coolness of the brick did wonders for his elevated temperature--both from running and from the knockout surge of arousal that flooded him at the sight of the two of them together.

He still hadn't gotten used to it. He hoped he wouldn't, not for a long time.

"You look so fucking good," Porthos said against Aramis' lips, and tipped his face back so he could kiss his jaw and neck. "You're fucking beautiful, we've missed you so much."

"Missed having you between us," Athos said, and smirked at the shiver that worked its way through Aramis--and the approving grin Porthos shot him.

"I love being between you," Aramis sighed, his back arching even more to press into Porthos' scattered kisses. "I love that you can't even wait to get me back home before getting your hands on me."

"A half hour run's too long," Porthos growled into his collarbone, and both Athos and Aramis let out soft sounds at that. 

Porthos lifted his head, his eyes bright with curiosity. He looked between the two of them, a pleased frown settling between his brows, and he grinned. "You did say something about going up to the fencing studio," he drawled, running a hand up and down Aramis' side.

"Oh, god, we can't," Athos said, cringing as he thought of how filthy the mats were _already,_ and both Porthos and Aramis laughed aloud.

Porthos shook his head and flashed Athos an impossibly fond smile. "Okay, no fucking in the studio."

"Can we play sex games in the studio?" Aramis asked instantly, looking delighted. 

"We are not having any kind of sex in the studio," Athos said, glaring at them. "Treville would murder me and you'd never find my body."

"I guess we'll just have to have sex somewhere else," Aramis sighed theatrically. He stretched against the brick wall, curving up into Porthos' touch. "Can we go home?"

"We need to eat," Porthos reminded him. "Pizza was last night."

Athos and Aramis blinked at each other. Aramis, too, Athos could tell, had completely forgotten that eating was something they needed to do.

"Seriously." Porthos wasn't even asking the question. "Again? What do I have to do to make you both remember to take care of yourselves?"

Aramis sighed and rested his head against Porthos' shoulder. "You're in a relationship with two people who are a little messed-up in the brain, darling. You're always going to have to remind us."

Athos smiled at him, pressing his arm against Aramis'. It felt a little wonderful to have him be so matter-of-fact about it, to not have to dance around the issue of Athos' fucked-up brain.

Then the plural of Aramis' words caught up to him, and Athos blinked. "Aramis?"

Porthos frowned between the two of them, not following--and then Athos saw the moment when he got it, and he held Aramis closer with one arm. He and Athos shared a quick look--that had been deliberate, Aramis hadn't just had a slip of the tongue.

Aramis sighed and tilted his head slightly, just enough so the two of them could see he was still smiling. "A lot of things," he said, one hand stroking up and down Porthos' spine and the other reaching out for Athos' fingers. "Had four first sessions with four different psychiatrists, who gave me four different diagnoses, with four different meds they wanted to put me on, and none of it seemed right, so. Fuck it. I do all right."

Athos pressed closer to him. He was starting to be aware of how cold the morning was, now that they'd cooled down a bit from their run, and together, he and Porthos could keep Aramis warm. "What?" he murmured, threading his fingers through Aramis'. "Can I ask?"

Aramis' smile turned rueful. "PTSD, bipolar, borderline--everything that would explain a high-strung emotional wreck with self-destructive tendencies. I was a mess the summer after high school, mama just wanted to see if anyone could help. " His dark eyes clouded slightly, and he nuzzled his cheek against Porthos' chest. It was the clearest touch-seeking he'd ever been, and Porthos brought both his arms around Aramis' shoulders to hold him close. 

Aramis sighed happily, burrowing into Porthos' chest even more and tugging Athos closer. "I was lucky," he said eventually, like he hadn't paused at all. "Getting away from that school did almost all the work, and then when we moved one of our new neighbors was a social worker. She helped me find some halfway decent therapy for the summer instead of going straight to meds. I know they help a lot of people--" Athos managed to suppress a guilty shiver, and Aramis went on, oblivious. "--But they just weren't right for me, not then, at least. I've evened out a lot on my own since. It helps to not be in such a fucking toxic environment you can barely breathe."

Athos leaned in to kiss his shoulder. He knew the feeling.

Aramis pulled Athos close, then curled his other hand into Porthos' shirt, his brow furrowing slightly. He chewed thoughtfully at his lip, his eyes falling half-shut as Porthos stroked his hair, and there was clearly something else on his mind.

But then he shook his head like he was clearing an Etch-a-Sketch in his brain, and smiled at them. "I mean, I do think I'm fucked in the head," he said, far more cheerfully than Athos ever could, "but I don't want to claim anything for myself when there are other people who, y'know, actually have it interfere with their lives. I do all right now."

"You can claim it if you need to," Athos said, leaning into Aramis and Porthos both. He felt very protective, just then. "If it would help."

"It doesn't." Aramis sighed against Porthos' chest, but he sounded content, not unhappy. "But thanks. It feels good to tell you both, just that it was something that happened--that I still sort of have issues with."

Athos nodded, his thoughts churning around Aramis' words. He'd known he had something wrong with his head for years. He'd come to terms with it, sort of--but he'd never been able to see it as something so simple as what Aramis was saying, something that he could admit so easily. As just being...sick, really. It was something to think about.

But right now was more about Aramis, Athos reminded himself, and wrapped his arms around him. "Any time," he said, and pressed a kiss to Aramis' temple. "You can tell us anything. Any time." 

Aramis tilted his face into the kiss. "Thank you," he said softly. "I'm sure I'll take you up on that."

His eyes were as soft as his voice, thoughtful, and Athos kissed him again, temple, cheek, jaw, until Aramis made a soft sound and turned his face toward Athos and kissed his lips.

Porthos' low rumble of satisfaction warmed Athos all the way through, and Aramis shivered delightedly from where he felt it, pressed all against Porthos' body.

"I say," Porthos said, reaching out to cup Athos' jaw in his hand, "we go get some food, shower, all of us, then go... Aramis, where did you want to go?"

"Grocery store." Aramis nipped at Athos' neck, and Athos swore and swatted at him. He laughed, kissing it better, then drew up and got himself on his own feet again. "I want to get enough food that we don't have to go downstairs if we don't want to."

Athos and Porthos shared a look.

"Works for me," Porthos said for the both of them.

\- - -

"I feel weird about this," Porthos said to no one in particular. 

Aramis gave him an inquiring look from where he knelt in front of the rice. "About what?"

Porthos' brow furrowed as he leaned on the shopping cart. Athos lifted his own eyebrows, encouraging him, and Porthos sighed, grimaced, and ran an awkward hand over the back of his own neck. "Gender roles?"

Aramis burst out laughing in the middle of the grocery store. 

It was the fancier store in the surrounding towns, about a twenty minute drive from campus. Aramis was going to make some of his mother's recipes ("yes, I know how to cook more than Pop-Tarts, I'm just _lazy_ "), and this store was the only one in this ("mayonnaise, bland, _boring_ ") neck of Massachusetts that had the range of ingredients he needed. Athos would drive a hundred miles and foot whatever bill they ran up to keep this smile on Aramis' face.

"Are you saying," Aramis said, sitting back on his heels and beaming up at Porthos, "that you feel weird about me doing the cooking because I wear the makeup and I'm the one who gets fucked?"

"Yes," Porthos said, a dull flush rising in his cheeks. "I do not anymore, now that you said it that way, but it was bothering me."

"I love you," Aramis said simply, and Porthos blushed deeper. 

Aramis grabbed a middle-sized bag of rice, that he'd spent two whole minutes frowning at and that Athos could not differentiate from any of the other bags or boxes or canisters of rice, and tossed it in their growing pile in the cart. 

"I love that you think about those things," Aramis said, more seriously, and leaned over the wire basket to brush a kiss over Porthos' lips. "Please never stop, it means a lot to me."

Porthos ducked his head and pushed the cart forward. "Stop making me blush in this fucking expensive grocery store."

"Never," Athos said with a smile, and settled his hand at the small of Porthos' back for a moment.

Porthos opted to change the subject instead of look at him, but he didn't shake Athos' hand off. "Is this all we need?" Porthos asked Aramis, and Aramis turned backwards to look at the two of them as he walked. 

"We'll have to go back through produce before we check out, I need a few onions." When this produced blank nods from both Athos and Porthos, Aramis slowed and gave them both a look. "Have either of you ever made a meal besides sandwiches for yourselves?"

Athos and Porthos shared a look. Porthos would never have had anyone to teach him to cook, let alone had opportunities to do so before college, and Athos touched a pan for the first time when Aramis taught him to make pasta their first year.

"For wildly different reasons, you know neither of us ever have," Athos said, looking back at him. 

Aramis sighed and glanced down into the cart. "Yeah, I guess I do." 

Athos hated making him look sad like that. "Sorry," he said a little awkwardly.

Aramis looked up, fond irritation in place of sadness now. "That's not something I need you to apologize for," he said, his voice painfully kind.

This grocery run was getting way too sentimental, and Athos coughed and looked back into the cart. "So. Um. Onion?"

Aramis rolled his eyes and started walking again, frowning into the cart as he did. "Yeah, I'll just need--"

He bumped into a cart turning into the aisle and stumbled, very nearly catching himself on a shelf of breakable-looking salad dressing before Porthos threw a hand out to grab him. "Oh, sorry!" Aramis said breathlessly, looking up and grinning awkwardly around the corner at the people he'd bumped into. "Sorry, my fault--"

"It's fine," the person pushing the cart said, and at the sound of his voice all of Athos' skin contracted and went cold.

Shit, fuck, shit shit goddammit fucking hell.

A tall, blonde boy and a girl with long dark hair, both their age, came around the corner, wiggling their cart in alongside theirs--and stopped at the sight of Athos. 

Fucking fuck _fuck._

"Ollie!" she said brightly, and both of them wore identical bemused, rigid smiles. "What a surprise!"

"Hello, Emily," he said, his brain on autopilot, and he didn't miss the look Porthos and Aramis shared. "Joe. How are you?"

 _Ollie?_ he could practically feel Aramis and Porthos thinking, could feel the name vibrating against his eardrums and the inside of his skull. _Ollie, Ollie, did you think you could get away?_

"We're good," Joe said, putting an arm around Emily's shoulder like the father in a car commercial. Athos half-expected them to have a minivan in the parking lot outside. "We're at Babson. Where are you again? Brandeis?"

"Dumas." Athos could feel the person he'd become retreating, shrinking in the face of _motherfucking Ollie_. He could feel himself freezing from the outside in. 

A broad, warm hand came to rest at the base of his spine. Porthos' heat radiated out from that touch, thawing cracks into his shell, and Athos remembered to breathe.

"This is Porthos, and this is Aramis," he said, and he could see Emily and Joe's annoyance at having to acknowledge his friends. "Porthos, Aramis, this is Emily and Joe." He swallowed and added, "We went to high school together," and watched Aramis' concerned brown eyes go flat with understanding. Porthos' hand tightened on his back.

Athos had no idea if he wanted Porthos to move his hand or not. He didn't know if he was about to turn and bolt or if he was going to backslide into _yes hello so good to see you we've missed you at the country club._

"Oh, longer than that," Emily said, her bright voice making him sick to his stomach. She'd never liked him. Why was she making herself pretend? "We were all at Boston Latin from seventh grade, Ollie, we've known you longer than we haven't."

Athos forced his face into an approximation of a smile. "I suppose that's right, yes."

"How are things in the Square?" Joe asked, with all the jovial casualness that Athos utterly despised about his social sphere's interactions. "Parents all right?"

"I'm sure you see them more than I do." Athos' heart was starting to make itself heard in his ears. 

"Oh, you don't get home much?" The triumph in Joe's eyes made Athos sick to his stomach, and he knew the next time he talked to his parents he'd hear about _you told Joe Welborn that you never come home, the entire country club knows you despise us_. "That's a shame, Ollie."

They knew he fucking hated that. They knew he preferred Athos, everyone at school fucking knew that, _they fucking knew_ and they still called him that. "My weekends are fairly packed." 

"Athos is captain of our fencing team," Aramis said smoothly, and every particle of Athos' body vibrated in gratitude for him. "He won our first tournament, this weekend."

"He's the best," Porthos said, an odd note to his voice, and Athos looked over at him. Porthos, usually so careful about his strength and size, had grown two inches taller and four inches broader in the ninety seconds since Athos looked at him last. All that muscle was placed carefully, protectively, just an inch between Athos and his two former tormentors, his hand still unbearably gentle against Athos' back.

But Emily and Joe had all they needed already to feed the hungry beast that was their parents' social circle, so their smiles didn't waver at all. "We'll be sure to tell your parents, then, since you don't have time to," Emily said easily, and Athos' limbs rusted solid like the Tin Man. 

Tell his parents he was fencing, winning, not speaking to them? Or tell his parents that they'd run into Athos, disheveled and stubble-burned, in a ragged hoodie in a public place, with two boys who wouldn't stop touching him and each other?

"Of course," he said mechanically. His chest didn't want to inflate, and it started to ache. 

"Take care, Athos," Emily said with a winning smile, and she and Joe pushed their cart past and down the aisle.

The minute they were out of sight, Aramis reached out and pulled Athos against his chest. "Breathe, darling, breathe with me."

Athos felt Aramis' chest rising and falling, and he made his own move with it. "I fucking hate them," he heard himself saying, low and monotone. "I always fucking hated them, they're just their parents in miniature, they don't know any other way to be, I fucking _hate_ them."

"I'm sure you do," Aramis said, his voice hard like Athos had never heard it. "It's fine. Forget about them."

"They're going to talk to my parents." Athos' brain was rapidly spiraling away. "They're going to tell them they saw me."

"So what?" Porthos' arm came around Athos' back, his chest pressing against Aramis' and Athos' sides, and he was holding both of them, shielding them. They had a row of--Athos didn't even fucking know what, canned vegetables?--at their backs, and Porthos at their front, keeping the world out. "So what, babe, they aren't gonna tell your parents anything they don't already know."

Athos closed his eyes and rested his head on Aramis' shoulder. He was right. Porthos was right. His parents already thought of him as a disappointment, as a mess, as a failure. Emily and Joe wouldn't tell them anything that would revise that opinion, or add anything new. It was fine.

 _They could tell them about Aramis and Porthos,_ the voice of his anxiety whispered in the back of his mind. _They could tell them about how Porthos was touching you._

 _They already know I'm too close to Aramis and Porthos,_ Athos reminded himself. _They've already told me I shouldn't be such good friends with them. This doesn't make a difference._

It didn't. Not really. 

The degree of his parents hating him didn't make a difference. Athos would still be at Dumas (hell, he could probably afford his last year of tuition himself, if they cut him off completely). He'd still have the fencing team.

He'd still have Aramis and Porthos, no matter what his parents thought.

"Yeah," he said, lifting his head. The pressure in his chest had eased. "Yeah, you're right."

Aramis smiled warmly at him, cupping Athos' face in his hands, and pressed their foreheads togther. "Good."

"Good," Porthos echoed, and kissed Athos' temple. "Can we move on now? I'd love to get home to actually eat some of this."

There was a faint note of... _something_ in his voice, though. Porthos' face was troubled, when they started back down the aisle, and Athos wasn't sure if he wanted to ask. He figured Porthos would tell him, if it mattered.

Porthos kept him waiting until they'd paid and loaded up the car, and were getting back on the road. Aramis was navigating, so he called shotgun, and Porthos was silent in the back seat until they were going steady on the route that would take them back to campus. 

"Athos," Porthos said slowly, and Athos' heart leaped into his throat. That was the tone of voice he'd been dreading--hesitant, but resolute. Porthos had something to say. "What did that guy mean, 'the square'?"

Athos kept his eyes on the road as his heartbeat spiked, and forced himself to keep breathing. He could feel Aramis' eyes on him from the passenger seat. 

This was it, then.

"Louisburg Square," Athos said as evenly as he could. His skin was going slowly numb from where his hands white-knuckled the steering wheel. "That's where the family home is."

A horrible silence stretched.

Aramis' slightly hysterical laughter rang too loud in the closed space of the car. "Louisburg Square?" he asked, sounding almost frantic. "You live there?"

"My parents do," Athos said, knowing how pathetic a distinction it was. "The townhouse was built for the de la Feres. We've been there as long as the square has."

Aramis blew out his breath and stared at the road, his eyes clearly unfocused. "Holy shit," he said softly.

Athos tore his eyes from Aramis to check his rearview mirror. He went cold all over when he caught sight of Porthos, sitting in the back seat and staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"You live," Porthos said, his voice completely unreadable, "in the richest neighborhood in Boston? Next to a fucking senator and shit?"

"He's on the other side of the park," Athos said automatically. 

"For fuck's sake," Porthos said, his voice slicing right to Athos' heart. "You know what I mean. Why wouldn't you tell us?" 

Athos glanced back into the rearview again--then just as quickly away. Porthos looked _hurt._ "You know," he said as evenly as he could, "that I try to keep the life I had there and the life I have here as separate as possible." 

"We know," Aramis said softly. 

Porthos let out an exasperated sound. "Yeah, we do," he said, his voice rough. "You keep it so separate that we barely know shit about what you did before college. Never mind that it's still _you,_ still _your_ life--you probably don't tell your parents shit about us, either, do you?" 

Athos took a deep breath, his eyes on the road. "No." 

"You planning on telling them we're together?" Porthos pressed, his voice more intent than Athos wanted it to be. "Any time soon?" 

"No," Athos said shortly. His chest felt like it was about to cave in under the weight of his heart. "I don't really think I'm up to the lecture about a five hundred year-old family line ending with me right now." 

Porthos blew out his breath, and Athos didn't dare look back at him. In his periphery, he could see Aramis sitting very straight and still in the passenger seat. 

He and Porthos had never fought before. 

"Whatever," Porthos muttered to himself. "I mean, I've been a rich white boy's dirty secret before, this ain't fucking new to me." 

Athos' vision grayed around the edges, and his hands went numb on the steering wheel. His heartbeat had either stopped entirely or gotten so fast he couldn't feel it. Dimly, he could hear Aramis' breath hiss between his teeth, but Athos' ears were filled with roaring. 

_A rich white boy's dirty secret._

The route they drove on had just one lane both ways. Like he was on autopilot, Athos swerved them onto the shoulder and stopped. Aramis jerked forward in his seat, catching himself on the dash, and he heard Porthos swear in surprise, but Athos could barely think straight. 

His hands were almost shaking too badly to flip his hazards on, but he managed it. He wrestled out of his seatbelt and twisted around in his seat to stare at Porthos. "I am _not,"_ he said, his voice cracking, "ashamed of you." Porthos' dark eyes gleamed with unshed tears, his jaw set, and Athos sucked in a breath. "Not either of you, that--that isn't why."

Aramis and Porthos were both silent, and Athos swallowed down the surging rush of _panicpanicpanic_ welling up in his throat. He couldn't say this. He couldn't--

Aramis was brave. Aramis was honest, earlier. Athos needed to be that honest. They deserved it.

"That place," he said, trying to keep his voice even so it wouldn't fucking break, "that life--it's awful, it's toxic, it changes people."

He remembered Anne when he'd met her, so proud and so eager to do well, and fuck, it had gone so wrong so quickly, she'd been too proud and too eager and it had just--it had just made all of it worse, and then they'd been broken beyond repair before they'd ever had a chance to build something.

"It changes people," he went on, his throat tightening, "and it's deadly, and--it nearly killed me, I need you both to understand that I couldn't take it, that I genuinely would have died if I had to stay there." 

Aramis' hand slid to cover his, but Athos couldn't take his eyes away from Porthos. "I would have," he said, barely able to get the words out. "I would have died, and I wouldn't ever have made it here to meet you two, who--" His throat closed, but he swallowed hard and forced it out, thin and reedy as his voice was, because _they had to know,_ he had to tell them.

Athos gasped in a breath and forced out, "Who make me feel more valued in an _hour_ than I did for the first twenty years of my life, because you two can stand up for yourselves and can actually care about other people and haven't had all the emotions beaten out of you until you don't know them anymore."

Aramis' hand squeezed his so tightly it was almost painful, and the touch dragged Athos from his rapidly spiraling nerves back to reality. He closed his mouth and swallowed, breathed. "I don't want to let that world touch you," he said finally. "I don't want to remember it, I don't ever want to live in it, and I do not want to let it poison you or us or anybody I care about now."

It was easier to say that than he'd thought. It was getting easier, sentence by sentence. "So I need...to keep you both as far away from that place and that life as possible," he said, forcing his eyes back to Porthos--when had he closed them?--and praying that Porthos would understand. "It isn't that I'm ashamed. I would never be ashamed of you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Porthos' eyes were wet, and his face was softer, less forbidding--still set, still unhappy, but Athos wasn't terrified he'd leave the second they got out of the car anymore. 

"Athos," he sighed finally and slid forward in his seat. "Athos, I know, I'm sorry, I know." 

Athos' whole body went numb with relief, and he practically threw himself over the seat divider and into Porthos' arms. 

"I can't even imagine that," Porthos murmured against his hair. "I don't have much family, but the kind I have I can tell anything. I just can't imagine the kind of world you had, babe, that's why I thought what I thought."

Athos nodded weakly, all at once just completely overwhelmed. He tried to focus on anything but his racing heart--and like he'd known Athos was needing it, Aramis' hand landed on his back, to rub steadying circles low over his spine.

"Athos, get in the back seat with Porthos," Aramis murmured, and Athos felt his lips brush the back of his neck. "I'll drive us home, you just sit with him."

Athos nodded again, and let Porthos' strength carry him over into the middle seat in the back. He helped get his own seatbelt on, but he really couldn't do much else--just lean against Porthos and cling as Aramis slipped into the driver's seat. 

"This is gonna take some adjusting," Porthos sighed, pulling Athos close once they were all situated. 

"Which part?" Athos mumbled against his chest. He felt sick to his stomach, dizzy with the comedown, and it only got worse as Aramis took them back onto the road. His throat hitched as he swallowed, and Porthos took up the same motion Aramis had offered, rubbing slow, soothing circles along Athos' spine. It helped, a little.

"The part where I literally cannot imagine your fucking past," Porthos said. Athos' eyes were closed, but he had a feeling Aramis and Porthos were having silent conversations in the rearview mirror. "I'd never realized we've got such wildly fucking different frames of reference until just now." 

"Yeah." Athos swallowed hard, trying to force down the slimy nausea. He was fine now. They were fine.

"I just..." Porthos blew out his breath, holding Athos closer. The tightness of his embrace made the coming words ache a little less. "You know I grew up with nothing," Porthos said, his voice carefully divorced from any emotion. "My mom died when I was six and I was homeless until I was fourteen." 

Athos stayed very still and very quiet. He did know that, knew the broad strokes of Porthos' life, but Porthos usually avoided the details. This felt different. 

"I've...never told you how Flea and I got into high school," Porthos said slowly. 

Athos shook his head. He'd assumed the normal way, but... He opened his eyes to see Aramis in the rearview mirror, staring fixedly at the road while tears tracked silently down his face. 

Porthos sighed. "I picked pockets on Wall Street for three weeks so we could buy new clothes. So we could hire someone to pretend to be our foster mom, to sign the forms at the least shitty public school we could find."

Athos lifted his head, twisted around to stare at Porthos. Porthos' eyes were still liquid with tears, but there was a dull resignation in his gaze that he'd never let Athos see before. And Athos could tell in an instant--Porthos had never wanted to tell them that. 

"Oh, Porthos," Aramis said softly.

He shrugged, his eyes tight at the corners. "We lived in a basement two blocks away, sneaking showers in the locker rooms. They found us out six weeks in, when the address we made up to send our report cards to sent them back."

Athos reached up and cupped Porthos' cheek in his hand. He didn't have words. Porthos looked ashamed--but Athos couldn't imagine why. That was the bravest thing he'd ever heard. 

Porthos looked down, his mouth twisting at the memory. "I thought we were gonna get arrested. But someone in the administration wasn't a fucking monster and brought us to Luisa instead of the cops." Luisa ran the house Porthos called home these days. From what Athos had heard of her, she was some combination of saint and drill sergeant. "She gave us a place to stay, helped us find our birth certificates and shit so we could stay in school."

Porthos' whole face softened at Luisa's name, and Athos saw his dark eyes relax from fear to fondness in memory. 

"That was brave," Athos said, his voice unlocked by the flash of happiness in Porthos' eyes. "And it wasn't wrong, you didn't do anything bad. You just wanted to go to school."

Porthos smiled softly at him. "That wouldn't have mattered if I'd been caught," he pointed out, almost gently. "I'm black and I'm poor, babe. I'm just lucky." It was that resignation in his voice that made it hurt the worst. "Lucky that guy took pity on us, lucky Luisa had space, lucky Treville had a spot for me to come here. If I weren't so lucky, I'd have been in and out of jail my whole life."

He shrugged. That made Athos ache, too. "The system's not broken," Porthos pointed out. "That's how it's supposed to work. People like you go to college. People like me go to jail. That's why I do sociology, so I can figure it out and fix it. But I'm not special. I'm lucky."

Everything in Athos wanted to scream _no._ Porthos was special. Porthos was perfect. But he couldn't argue that Porthos was wrong about the institutions. He was very right. 

"You realize that's bullshit," Aramis said quietly from the front seat. Aramis was only glancing back at them when driving allowed, but it didn't feel like he was any less connected. He certainly seemed very, very involved, right now--his voice tight, his eyes intent when he glanced back. "Not all of it, Porthos, you're too fucking right about most of it. But you _are_ fucking special. The decisions you made weren't blind chance. Nobody else would have made those decisions. You did everything so you could put yourself in a place to help others. You have the biggest heart I've ever known." 

Aramis' voice was still quiet--matter-of-fact, almost. "You stayed yourself. You're kind and loving and you still want to help everyone you meet. That is special. It is. Some of it's luck, and some of it's God, but a lot of it is you. Please don't say it isn't."

Porthos smiled at Aramis in the mirror, looking tearful and vulnerable and a lot younger, and Athos would never have been able to say that, he realized. Aramis could say it because Aramis had fought the same way. Athos _believed_ it, but it would have just sounded like platitudes from him. Aramis could mean it. 

"And Athos thinks so too," Aramis said then, and Athos jumped and felt himself flush. Aramis was smiling at him in the mirror. "He's keeping his privileged mouth shut, but he nearly choked on his tongue when you said you weren't special."

Porthos looked at Athos, those soft eyes tearing his heart out, and Athos nodded wordlessly. "You are the absolute kindest," Athos said. "And the bravest, and the strongest. That's you."

Porthos tightened the arm around Athos' shoulders and held him close. His face was still set and sad, but there was something a little easier in his eyes. "Maybe," he said, and it reminded Athos of himself--the way he could never believe when anyone told him he was worthwhile. 

But that was from his mental illness, and his parents, and the society he'd grown up in. Porthos had had the whole world telling him that. 

He'd never quite realized everything that meant until now. 

Because it meant that even though he hadn't _wanted_ to make Porthos feel like Athos was hiding him, compartmentalizing him, making him lesser--that was exactly what he'd done. He was part of it. 

"I'm sorry," Athos said, pressing as close to him as he could. "Porthos, I'm so sorry. I didn't think, I just--wanted out." The thought made him sick. "It's toxic and terrible, the life I lived. That whole world makes me panic, and I never want to go back. I want to make a clean break from it with both of you. You're the most important thing in my life."

Porthos pressed his face to Athos' temple, his jaw still tense. "I know, Athos," he said, but he still sounded so sad. 

And Athos realized something else.

Oh. _Oh._ "But I suppose," he said slowly, "that it's a luxury that I can leave my past behind, isn't it?" 

And finally, he felt Porthos smile, felt some of the tension go out of him. "It is, babe, yeah."

"We love you anyway," Aramis said lightly. "But yes, darling, it is an enormous privilege."

"I see that now," Athos said, and Porthos sighed, pulled him closer. 

"Thank you," Porthos murmured, and Athos kissed his chest. 

"We'll have to keep talking about this," Aramis said, his voice overwhelmingly gentle, full of affection for the both of them. "Especially now. But this is a good step."

Athos nodded. Thank God at least something vaguely positive had come out of this fucking awful afternoon. Athos turned his words over in his head, thinking, thinking. "Can I ask, Porthos--was it the thought I was hiding you that hurt, or just the reminder that I come from such a different place?"

Both of Porthos' arms settled around him, and Athos relaxed a little more. "I didn't ever really _think_ you were hiding me," Porthos said, his breath ruffling Athos' hair. "That was my heart, not my head. The worst part is just--the reminder, Athos, that's all. It's always gonna sting. And the silence...that's gonna be hard for me to get over. I'm gonna work on it, but I can't stand not talking, babe, we have to talk."

Athos sighed, melting into him. "I'm trying to break the programming," he said. "It's--silence has been what's expected of me. For so long."

"It's okay. I know that now." Porthos let out a heavy breath, his chest curving under Athos' head. "I just--my brothers and sisters growing up, or at Luisa's? If they weren't telling me about their boyfriends, it was because they were getting hurt. Or they were hiding something. Silence was something bad, the way I grew up, I just...I need you to get that, so you know I wasn't just being an asshole."

"I would never think that." 

"No one could ever," Aramis said from the front seat. "Honestly, Porthos."

Porthos' rumbling chuckle gave Athos the strength to keep talking. "Silence was the default, the way I grew up. We never spoke. If we did speak, we never got below the surface. Family...family is a responsibility, to us, not a support system."

That helped. It helped to get that out, to realize that was how it was. Family wasn't something emotional, something helpful. It was an institution. 

"That's the worst thing I've ever heard in my life," Aramis burst out, then almost instantly swore at himself in Spanish. "No, fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say--"

"No, it's fine." Athos opened his eyes and saw Aramis looking anxiously back at him in the rearview mirror. "It is the very worst thing."

Aramis looked relieved, and his eyes turned back to the road. "Good. I'm sorry. I just can't--I cannot fucking comprehend, when you have everything like that, how you could not want to be fucking generous with your children, it doesn't make any fucking sense to me. My family never shuts up with how much we love each other."

Athos smiled, the tension in his chest loosening. "Really?"

"Oh, my God, yes, my cousins are always dripping obnoxious emoticons over each others' Facebooks, holiday parties are one enormous sea of people telling me how handsome I've gotten and how proud they are of me being at college--" Aramis laughed out loud at the memory, and Athos loved seeing his face light up. It was so _different,_ seeing someone be happy thinking of their family. "Like, all right, so when Abuela sold her condo and moved to the retirement home, she gave us kids all the money for college or cars, whatever we needed, and my cousin Soledad decided it was time to start her wedding planning business--"

Athos closed his eyes and smiled, letting Aramis' story about his cousin's ill-fated startup carry them all the way home. Porthos' arms were snug around him, and he felt fine. He felt safe.

Even though the gist of Aramis' story was that his cousin's idea crashed and burned, Athos picked up the real point--the whole family supported her, even though they knew her idea had its flaws. Genuine love lay under all of Aramis' words, even the frustrated ones. "And she's learning a lot working for Susanna now, anyway," he finished as they turned into the student parking lot. "She's making a lot of vendor friends, she's much more organized. She'll probably be ready to strike out on her own in a year or so, just--not when she was fifteen, God love her."

"Shit, I want your family," Porthos laughed as both he and Athos straightened, waking up slightly from their car doze as Aramis parked.

Aramis twisted around in his seat, one arm on the headrest and his brown eyes bright, and he smiled at the two of them. "I bet they'd love to have you," he said simply.

Then suddenly his face shifted to a look of overwhelmed apology, and Athos wondered _why?_ for a moment before he realized both he and Porthos had tears in their eyes.

"I--I do mean that, but I was trying to be nice, I didn't mean to make you cry," Aramis babbled, his dark eyes starting to shine, too. He looked so stricken that there was no recourse but for Athos and Porthos to pull him into the back seat with them.

"We know," Porthos said, his voice muffled slightly by Athos' hair. "We love you."

Athos wrapped his arms around Aramis' waist and hugged him close. "It was a very kind sentiment," he said, when his voice wasn't too thick to speak. 

"We're maybe gonna have to stop talking about family," Porthos said, and he sounded a little choked-up, too. "Your family's great, Aramis. We're glad you have them."

Aramis kissed them both on whatever parts of their faces he could reach, then gently nudged them both upstairs and inside. 

It was a fragile little afternoon for a while. They changed into their lazy clothes, Aramis put the snacks in Athos' fridge and the actual food in the kitchen one, and as they settled in at the kitchen table to watch Aramis cook, Athos decided _fuck it_ and sat in Porthos' lap. 

Porthos hummed happily and wrapped his arms around Athos' waist, resting his chin on Athos' shoulder, and Aramis smiled at them. They were all very carefully avoiding talking about the grocery store trip, or the car ride, or their families. No one wanted to provoke any more tears, but.

It was a tender subject, especially since the three of them were--no one really wanted to say it, but it was true--making their own family. It hung over everything they did today, it seemed.

So, like normal young men, Athos thought dryly, they completely avoided it, and talked about absolutely anything else.

"Oh, that's smart," Porthos said at one point, as Aramis folded the plastic produce bag around the chile he was slicing. Athos blinked between them, nonplussed, and Porthos elaborated, "So the juice doesn't get on his fingers."

"Learned the hard way," Aramis said philosophically. 

Athos frowned at him. "Oh?" He had a mental image of a young Aramis touching his eye--he should have known it wouldn't have been nearly that innocent.

Aramis flashed a grin over his shoulder at the two of them. "Since neither of you have ever cooked in your life, I'm assuming you don't know what it's like to accidentally try to masturbate with chile oils on your hands."

Athos resisted the urge to cross his legs, cringing, and he felt Porthos shudder theatrically behind him. "That is _not_ something I'm into," Porthos said.

"Off the kink list," Athos agreed. 

"Fine with me," Aramis laughed, tipping the peppers into the new saucepan they'd bought. Before their trip to the store, the three of them had had exactly one pot between them, which was also Aramis'. "Rice _and_ beans will require two," Aramis had patiently explained to them both in the grocery store, and Athos was ashamed to admit he was learning more about cooking this afternoon than he had in his whole life.

Everything Aramis did was a marvel to Athos. He seemed to know exactly what needed to be added and when--it was easy to him, a habit, but Athos wouldn't even have the faintest idea of where to start. He was genuinely amazed by the seemingly-casual way Aramis did things Athos had only ever seen on television, like toasting the rice in the pan before he added the water, even though Aramis was a constant stream of self-deprecation and premature excuses about how it wouldn't be as good as it was supposed to be.

"So, just between us," Aramis continued, as he poured in the water and set the lid on the pan, "when you meet my Tia Vero, do not ever tell her you saw me cook this with a regular pan and not a _comal,_ unless my mother is there to defend us."

"You realize we have no idea what you're talking about?" Porthos said, shifting Athos slightly in his lap. It was like sitting in a very warm recliner that kept casually pushing up against his ass. Athos was stone sober, but Porthos' presence, constant touching, occasional shifting, made him feel ever so slightly buzzed. It was a good feeling. 

"No, but really, this is Dothraki," Porthos went on, and kept going when Athos starting shaking with silent laughter against his chest. Porthos was trying to make him laugh. Athos was definitely a little buzzed on that. "This is like Harry Potter spells," Porthos said, grinning. "Why does the pan matter? I think you just made up half the things you apologized for. You're just saying words at us."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Aramis laughed, the back of his neck flushing as he stirred the beans, "this is rice and beans, not magic." The pink on the back of his neck was endearingly adorable. Athos wanted to kiss it. 

He could do that now, he realized with a surge of emotion, and something like power felt electric under his skin. He tapped lightly on Porthos' wrist until Porthos unclasped his arms from around Athos' waist (like a very large, very comfortable seat belt). 

Aramis drew a soft breath between his teeth when Athos' arms settled around him, and let it out even more quietly when Athos kissed the hot blush on the back of his neck. His knife hand stilled over the garlic cloves he was chopping, and his left hand opened and closed convulsively on the countertop.

"It's magic to us," Athos said softly in his ear. He felt compelled to speak, suddenly; the words had been churning in his chest, growing more solid by the hour, until finally he couldn't keep them in anymore. "Families and food and making something with so much care--I've never had that."

Aramis' breath came in a soft pant again, and Athos wished he could see his face--but he couldn't, so he kissed Aramis' neck again and willed the words to come. "You give me that. You both do."

Aramis tensed beneath his hands, and for a moment Athos was sure he'd fucked up somehow.

Then Aramis scooped up the half-chopped garlic and literally _threw_ it into the pot of beans, and he turned in Athos' hold and dragged him into a messy, passionate kiss.

 _Oh, or that,_ Athos thought dizzily before a tidal wave of lust dragged him under. 

"I want to give you that," Aramis gasped against his lips. He arched into Athos' hold and bit at his bottom lip and when his hands came up to push Athos' hair back he smelled like pepper and garlic and _home, home, this is what a home is supposed to smell like, food and love and warmth._ "I want to give you both that, you deserve it so much, _Porthos--_ "

"I'm here," Porthos' voice came, a soft murmur at Athos' back, and Athos nearly sobbed with relief, with so many emotions, when Porthos' arms came around them both and Porthos' lips landed hot on his neck.

Athos reached up and back and fisted one hand in the neck of Porthos' t-shirt, aching to touch him, suddenly--he still felt like he'd failed him this afternoon, like no matter how much they'd managed to settle the immediate hurt, Athos' failures as a boyfriend and human were still glaringly apparent. He couldn't articulate his feelings to save his life. He was terrified of losing his family's approval when he'd never really wanted it in the first place. He'd shut down sooner than open up. 

But they were both still here, still touching him, still close. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

"Need some more space," Porthos said against his neck, and he tugged Athos and Aramis back and around. There was some spinning, some stumbling, a few moments where Athos pressed up loose-limbed against Porthos and kissed him desperately--

And then Athos was half-sitting on the kitchen table, Aramis leaning between his spread thighs, and Porthos stood behind Aramis, holding on to Athos' hair with one hand and Aramis' hip with the other. 

"This is us thanking you for dinner," Porthos said in Aramis' ear. "And a whole fucking lot of other things." And his teeth closed and tugged on Aramis' earlobe for a hot flash of a second.

Aramis _whined_ , arching up onto his toes to rock into Athos and tilting his head back to rest on Porthos' shoulder. "It's just--it's just rice and beans, I swear I could make it in my sleep, it's not special--"

"It's special for us," Porthos said, nipping at Aramis' neck, "because it's you. Because it's your family."

His eyes and Athos' eyes met over Aramis' shoulder, and Porthos grinned at him. His smile was so fucking open. Genuine. Everything about Porthos was utterly, completely genuine.

Athos pushed himself up, straining for Porthos' lips, and Porthos kissed him hard and fast before Athos got distracted by Aramis sucking on the line of his jaw. "Fuck," he groaned, clutching desperately at Aramis' shoulders, and then they were kissing again. It had gone from chaste to frenzied in less than a minute, Athos had no idea how two people could get him this riled up in this short of a time, especially when they'd already been fucking for two days straight--

"Shit," Aramis gasped, and Athos looked down to see Porthos' hands rucking up his shirt with one hand, spreading flat and possessive over his stomach with the other. Aramis' low moan of encouragement had Porthos kissing his neck almost tenderly, and Athos and Porthos' eyes met. 

Athos smiled at him and pulled Aramis closer, sliding his other hand over Aramis' hardening cock through his pajama pants. Aramis whined again, rocking forward to bite desperately at Athos' lips, and Athos let his mouth fall open, let Aramis take what he wanted. 

"Love you two like this," Porthos said against Aramis' neck, and Athos and Aramis moaned in shameless unison. 

Aramis arched forward into Athos, back against Porthos, and he reached back to clutch wildly at Porthos' hair. "You don't--you really don't have to do this just because I'm cooking, honestly--"

"You're not just cooking," Athos said without really thinking, as he palmed Aramis' cock, pressed forward against him. "You're making something for us, you've been so good to us both all day, you've made us feel like we're part of something--"

"Family," Porthos breathed out against Aramis' neck, his arm wrapping around Aramis' waist and holding him close. "You make this family, Aramis."

Aramis let out a soft breath, Athos tried to choke back his sudden overwhelmed emotion, and he arched up, reaching for Porthos. Porthos looked up, their eyes meeting, and Athos tried to pour all his feelings into his gaze--how sorry he was, how much he wanted this to be his family now--how much he loved them both.

Porthos smiled, his eyes soft and full of love, and he leaned forward to kiss Athos over Aramis' shoulder. Athos melted against Aramis' body, Aramis moaned and sank forward against Athos, and Porthos growled a little at the feeling of both of them going pliant and pressed closer, pushing Aramis even more into Athos. 

"That's enough feelings," Aramis gasped, mouthing at Athos' shoulder. "I'd really like to get through some sex with you both without crying, can we please just get to the orgasms now?"

"Fine by me," Athos groaned, already dangerously close to tears himself, and he pulled Aramis up, kissing him hard as he worked a hand between them. 

"Nah, sorry," Porthos said, nipping at the join of Aramis' neck and shoulder. "Gonna keep being sentimental."

Aramis sighed out against Athos' lips as Athos pushed his pants down his hips and wrapped a hand around his cock. "Oh, God, Porthos--"

"Love you," Porthos hummed. He nibbled at the shell of Aramis' ear, and Athos tasted Aramis' wanting groan. "Love the way you take care of us, Aramis. Love the way you both care so much, try so hard to be so good."

"Fuck," Athos said, his spine turning to jelly as Aramis reached into his pajama pants and took him in hand, as well. They jerked at each other messily, completely lacking in any coordination, and it was so good, it felt so good. "Aramis, make him stop, do something."

Aramis rocked his bare ass back against Porthos' groin and Porthos swore softly. "Rude," he growled with a breathless smile. "I'm being nice, and this is the thanks I get?"

"I will _thank_ you," Aramis half-laughed, "to sto-- _ohhh_ , Athos--stop talking, literally, you can do anything to me if you just stop making me want to cry."

"Anything?" Athos smiled at him, all teeth and heat. "You really want to write him a blank check like that?"

Aramis leaned forward to kiss him, moaning softly into his mouth. "I can trust you two with that," he gasped, grinning, and Athos kissed him back, kissed him harder. 

"Wish I'd grabbed some lube and a condom," Porthos gasped, rocking against Aramis, "if I known you were gonna say _anything_ \--"

Aramis swore vociferously in Spanish and arched back. "The first time you fuck me is not going to be in a kitchen, for fuck's sake--"

"Athos, make him shut up," Porthos laughed, and Athos tightened his grip to watch Aramis break off on a moan. 

It all faded into a blur of touching and kissing, then--Aramis' hand sliding on his cock, spreading the slickness he was leaking like a faucet, _God,_ he was easy for them, and he loved the way Aramis felt under his hand, hard and hot and twitching for him, too--

Then Aramis let out a startled, broken sound of absolute desire, and Athos lifted his head to see Aramis' eyes glazed and his mouth open, his hips stuttering forward against Athos', and Porthos must have done _something_ to make him look like that, but Athos couldn't see, at first.

Then Porthos groaned softly, murmured, "Yeah, just like that," and Athos looked down to see Aramis' thighs pressed tightly together, and Porthos' hips working against him. It took Athos a minute to realize what they were doing, and then he thought about how it would feel, Porthos' cock hot and slick between his own thighs, brushing the skin of his balls, and a startled, drunken sound of arousal punched its way from his chest. 

"Shit, shit, shit," Aramis gasped, rocking between the two of them, and his hand sped up on Athos' cock, his other hand groping wildly for Porthos' hip, pulling him closer, tighter. "I take it back, you could fuck me in the kitchen, I wouldn't care--"

"I do," Porthos groaned, his hips driving punishingly against Aramis' ass, and Athos was literally hot all over, he felt like his skin was going to burst into flames. Just watching them, feeling Aramis rocked into his own body, between his spread legs, from Porthos' thrusts--the kitchen table was rocking underneath Athos' ass and all three of them were moaning and gasping against each other's skin and--

"Oh, fuck," Athos managed to choke out before he came all over Aramis' hand, his body jerking as he twisted up into Aramis' hold and reached for Porthos. Porthos, watching him, let out a guttural groan and slammed his hips against Aramis two, three times more before his mouth fell open in a gasp for air.

Aramis came without a sound, his face screwed up and his head falling back onto Porthos' shoulder--

And then his knees gave out and Porthos literally had to catch him before he dropped to the floor. Athos' bones had turned to jelly a few moments ago, but he still had enough stability to slide off the table and follow them down to kneel on the floor. He didn't want to stop touching them.

 _"Je_ sus," Aramis groaned, dazed and sweat-flushed, and the three of them collapsed under the kitchen table in a tangle of boneless limbs.

Athos ended up with his head on Porthos' shoulder and Aramis against his chest, and he craned his neck to mouth idly at Porthos' collarbone through his t-shirt. He was still half-out of it; he just wanted Porthos in his mouth, wanted both of them in all his senses. Porthos' low hum of pleasure made him feel warm, proud, and Athos scraped his teeth along the smooth curve of bone to hear Aramis murmur appreciatively.

He had no idea how long they lay like that before he heard a tell-tale muffled bell.

Porthos went rigid under him. "Fuck, the elevator."

Athos' head jerked up, and everything in his body went cold. They'd left the door to the kitchen, to the living room, wide open, sure that they were the only ones around, and if you took four steps from the elevator in the right direction you could see the whole kitchen. "Fuck, the door--" 

"Fuck, the _food,_ " Aramis said, scrambling upright and dragging his pants back up, and the three of them flung themselves out from under the table in a panicky dash. 

Athos had barely righted his shirt and pants before he got on his feet and to the door to close it--

And then the elevator opened, and Athos jerked the door halfway shut to hide a still-disheveled Aramis and Porthos, and smiled blandly at the two who stepped out. "Hello, Grayson, Larissa."

Grayson and Larissa waved brightly at him, Grayson smiling like an affectionate retriever. "Oh, hey, Athos! I just came by to grab some clothes--is it just you, up here by yourself?" The worry on his face was sort of sweet, and it was nice to know his people cared a bit about him. 

"Hey, Grayson," Aramis called from behind him, Porthos' deep voice echoing a "hey, bro" a minute later.

Grayson fenced sabre. He knew how fractured the three of them had been lately; it was gratifying to see a flash of bone-deep relief cross his face before he got a grip. "Cool," he said, the one word conveying a world of understanding, and Athos smiled faintly at him. "You guys done fighting, then?"

"God willing," Athos said, his mouth on autopilot, and half-expected a scoop of half-cooked beans to come flying at the back of his neck for his troubles. But no, Aramis just snickered, and Athos willed himself not to blush, not to blush, not to blush.

"Cool," Grayson said again, smiling. It looked like there was something more he wanted to say for a second--then he shrugged and flashed Athos a wave before heading down the hall toward his room with Larissa.

He dropped his arm from the doorframe with a rush of relief, and turned back to the others with a slightly panicked look. "Well, that was very nearly the most embarrassing moment of my life."

"I've had worse," Aramis laughed, twisting to kiss Athos' cheek as they washed their hands at the sink together. "Nicely handled, though."

"Very casual," Porthos agreed, settling back into his chair. "Very chill."

Athos nodded absently. He dried his hands on the back of Aramis' t-shirt ( _"excuse you"_ ), just for the fun of it, then leaned against the table again and watched Aramis check the rice. "Food okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, nothing overboiled, all good." He flashed Athos a grin, and Porthos a wink. "Some slow-cooking recipes were made for quickies."

Athos smiled at him, but something was niggling at the edge of his mind. Something about the way Grayson had smiled, something about what he hadn't said. It took Athos a moment to realize what it was. 

"When are we going to tell the team?" he asked, and didn't miss Porthos and Aramis share a quick, startled look.

His heart sank. "Did you--" He heard his own voice catch, and he swallowed, trying to settle it. "Did you think," he asked, when they both looked at him, stricken, "that I wasn't going to want to tell the team?"

"Not--not so soon," Aramis said slowly, and Porthos nodded.

"You're pretty cautious, babe," Porthos said, reaching out a hand to Athos, and he went into Porthos' arms with a sigh of relief. They hadn't thought so poorly of him, then. "I...think we both figured you'd wanna give it some time."

Athos sat down in Porthos' lap again, resting his head on Porthos' shoulder, and Aramis turned down both burners and moved to stand beside him, putting his arms around them both. Athos sighed, easing into the touch, and laced his fingers through Aramis'. "No? Yes? I...I don't want to feel like we're hiding." 

"Then we tell them," Porthos said simply, and kissed his temple. "It's that easy, babe."

"They already care about the three of us as a unit," Aramis pointed out, running his fingers through the curls at the nape of Athos' neck. "I'm sure they'll be fine with it."

"What do you two want to do?" Athos asked, twisting so he could see them both.

Porthos shrugged easily, smiling. "I wouldn't mind everyone knowing," he said quietly. 

Aramis pressed his hip affectionately into Porthos' side. "I'm going to be obnoxiously demonstrative," he laughed. "I think everyone will know soon enough, anyway."

Down the hall, he could hear Grayson's door close again, and Larissa's voice murmuring quietly as they came back towards the elevator.

Aramis and Porthos were fine with people knowing. 

Athos made up his mind, and raised his voice. "Grayson?"

Porthos tensed underneath him, shifting like he was going to get Athos off his lap, but Athos put a hand on his shoulder. Aramis had tensed like a skittish animal, ready to bolt, but relaxed when Athos settled Porthos. He felt more than saw the two of them share another surprised look.

Grayson stuck his head into the kitchen. "You called?"

Athos didn't move from Porthos' lap, didn't move his one hand from where he was holding Aramis'. "Yes." 

Grayson blinked at them, the tableau of the three of them cuddling, holding, the food simmering on the stove and a slow smile spread over his face. "Yeah?" Grayson was sharp. He knew what this was. He'd probably guessed when he heard Aramis and Porthos' voices, before, if Athos were honest with himself.

"We're going to let everyone know at the next meeting," Athos said, and felt Porthos' startled intake of breath, felt Aramis' fingers tense in surprise in his.

Grayson grinned easily at the three of them. "Cool."

"But if anyone asks between now and then," Athos said, trying to just rip off the band-aid, "I don't want you to feel like you have to lie. Just--discreet, yes?"

Grayson beamed at him. "Sure thing, brothers."

"See you later, man," Porthos said, sounding easy again, and Grayson waved at them all before ducking back out of the kitchen. 

The minute he was gone, Porthos took Athos' head in his hands and turned his face up for a kiss. Athos melted into it, sighed when he felt Aramis' hands slide over his shoulders and his lips brush his hair, and surrendered utterly.

"I don't want to hide you two," he murmured when they finally broke apart. "I want all our friends to know how happy you make me."

Porthos' grin was slow and sweet, Aramis hummed happily against his hair, and for the first time all day, Athos was sure he'd done something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real incidents from life inserted into fic: Massachusetts is indeed a difficult place to buy not-Yankee groceries; I had to bring Ro-Tel back up from home the one time I tried to make queso at school. 
> 
> Louisburg Square is indeed terrifyingly rich; not many two-block neighborhoods have their own Wikipedia page?? A good friend of mine lived at the Friends House in Beacon Hill, and she trick or treated at John Kerry's house once upon a time. Fancy shit, y'all.
> 
> As always, [ze tumblr, if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude in the fencing studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little update--literally, an interlude--because I think I've ceased to see this as a story in the traditional sense in my head, and more as, like, a web serial that updates in accordance with my stressful and erratic work schedule. This was both a good place to break and a nice little thing to celebrate the finale. Y'all are the most wonderful and patient fans, thank you so much for your constant kindness.
> 
> Warning in this chapter for a brief PTSD moment, not very graphically described (Aramis, not Athos), and a reference to prescription drug abuse.

Aramis neatly sidestepped Porthos and whacked his leg with the blade of his épée, and Porthos tripped, stumbled, and rolled onto the mats, trailing a string of expletives. It was one of the more glorious pratfalls Athos had ever seen. 

"Foul," he said as dryly as he could, and Porthos burst into laughter.

His laugh echoed off the mats, off the mirrored walls of the fencing studio, and Athos took a deep, delighted breath as he felt it vibrate in his chest.

It was Tuesday afternoon. After the emotional overload that had been their excruciating car ride and semi-coming out as a couple, Monday evening had been spent eating Aramis' incredibly delicious rice and beans and watching more Game of Thrones. 

Monday night had been spent in gentle touches and slow, sweet kisses, and Athos was still feeling relaxed down to his bones. It wasn't just that _he'd_ felt taken care of (though the orgasm Aramis had finally coaxed from him had left him shivering in their arms for five whole minutes). He'd spent half an hour sprawled between Porthos' legs, sucking him slowly and watching Porthos and Aramis kiss, emotion sparking in his chest whenever they stroked his hair. It had felt so good to be giving pleasure like that, to feel connected like that.

They felt better than ever, the three of them. They felt more connected, more in sync, than ever. For the first time in three years, Athos woke up excited for something.

Even if the something he'd been excited about today--getting in a little fencing practice, after so long without--had rapidly degenerated into shameless flirting.

And even that he was still decently excited about.

"Oh, darling, I didn't mean to trip you," Aramis said with a sweet smile, tossing his épée aside and following Porthos down to the mats. His knees hit the mat on either side of Porthos' legs, and as Porthos rolled over, Aramis' hands came down on either side of his shoulders. 

There was no way Porthos could look up at Aramis, on all fours over him like that and grinning so very coyly, and _not_ kiss him. Athos couldn't blame him for that at all. 

"We are never going to get any practice done," he said at length, when Porthos had both his hands buried in Aramis' hair and Aramis had collapsed down on top of Porthos' body, arms hooked under his shoulders.

They broke apart with an obscenely wet sound that make his cock perk up with interest ( _no,_ Athos savagely ordered his body, _later_ ), and Aramis sat back on his haunches, grinning sheepishly. "My fault, sorry, my bad."

"Yeah, it fucking was," Porthos laughed, slumping back and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "But it wasn't like I tried, at all, so. Y'know. Takes two."

"Are you two going to behave?" Athos asked, trying to keep his voice arch and his smile under control. "We do all need this."

That got them. Aramis grimaced and rolled to his feet, and Porthos nodded ruefully. They'd all three of them been annoyed with how they'd fenced on Saturday.

"But that doesn't mean," Athos said slowly, feeling his smile widen, "we can't make it fun."

Porthos grinned wickedly at him. "What'd you have in mind?"

Athos got to his feet and held out a hand. Porthos clasped it, let Athos pull him up--and swayed into Athos' space, dropping his hands to Athos' waist. Aramis hummed approvingly, and Athos' whole body flushed from head to toe. Porthos made him dizzy.

"I thought," Athos said, looking up through his lashes at Porthos--God, it was so easy to want to be seductive, to want to be sexy for him when he hadn't even thought the word _sexy_ in years, "that we could do bouts on a prize system."

He jumped as Aramis' hands settled on his waist, shivered pleasantly as Aramis pressed against his back. "What did you have in mind?" Aramis said, his breath warm and gentle on the back of Athos' neck.

Athos leaned back into him, smiled at Porthos--felt powerful, felt wanted. "I was thinking," he said, "that tonight when we get home, I'll blow whoever wins your first bout."

Aramis' teeth closed on his earlobe, and Athos choked down a strangled sound as Porthos shifted closer. "You were thinking that?" Porthos asked, his dark eyes hot. "When'd you come up with something that kinky?"

Athos debated lying. He really didn't want to seem _that_ eager.

Eh.

"About six months ago," he admitted, tilting his head into the nuzzle of Aramis' lips and nose. His whole body flushed hot at the sparkle that lit up Porthos' eyes.

Aramis broke away and laughed clear and long, and Porthos took Athos' face in his hands and kissed him with pure, unadulterated delight. 

"How long," Aramis choked, still breathless with laughter, "how long, exactly, have you been harboring kinky fencing thoughts about us? Please, please, tell me absolutely everything."

Athos broke away from Porthos, lightheaded and shaky-limbed with happiness, and turned in their arms until he was facing Aramis. Aramis' look of pure joy stunned him into silence for a moment--fuck, up close like that and all focused on _him_ \--and Athos cleared his throat. "You," he said, his voice going wonderfully deep in his throat, "since about our second team practice. Porthos, somewhat later? I didn't think I was allowed to fantasize inappropriately about both my best friends at once."

"I'm just glad it wasn't just me," Porthos laughed against his neck. "I thought I was only nuts about Aramis, Athos, but you still keep creeping into those inappropriate locker room fantasies."

Athos went brick red and rock hard in sheer reflex, and Aramis threw his head back and laughed again. 

"I think," Athos said when he could speak again (and had willed his cock to _shut up fucking shut up go away I will deal with you later_ ), "that we should get on with practicing."

"Fair enough," Aramis agreed with a mischievous glint in his eye, and brushed another kiss over Athos' lips before he mercifully let go. Porthos, after another last, tender kiss to the back of Athos' neck, did too.

Over the years, the three of them had developed an inexplicably complicated system of point scoring and rules so they could fence with each other, despite their three different weapons and disciplines. It was, literally, inexplicable. The three of them had all tried, variably, to explain it to their teammates--to Treville--and had failed spectacularly, every time. It wasn't, Athos would try to tell them, that they were making new rules, but mixing the old ones, instead. Athos and Porthos still had to take right-of-way before attacking; Aramis could score anywhere on them he wanted. But even if they demonstrated, no one else seemed to get it. They'd figured it out halfway through their first year, and it had only gotten easier--well, harder, at least to explain--over the years.

So much of it was instinct: what was fair between the three of them, what worked for each one of them, how to bring it together. It wouldn't have worked for any other group of three, in any other mix, probably, for anyone who'd been together for less time.

Athos was privately, selfishly, glad that no one else had managed to pull off their trick. It made the three of them seem like magic to the rest of the team.

"You're smiling," Porthos said, and Athos glanced up from his foil and mask to see the two of them watching him. They were both smiling, and yes, Athos could feel the telltale tug of his lips up.

"Yes," he said simply, and folded himself down to the floor to watch them. "Whenever you're ready, gentlemen."

Aramis and Porthos shared a look. Aramis winked, and Porthos' grin spread filthy and wicked. 

Then they put on their masks, and moved easily into _en garde._

When they fenced, they fenced to seven touches. Porthos and Aramis both thought five was when you were just getting started. It still made something itch in the back of Athos' brain, growing up in the fencing schools that he had, but he'd fence to fifteen if they asked him to. It was easier, now, just to admit to himself that he would do pretty much anything they wanted of him. Fencing to seven points was nothing.

Aramis and Porthos flowed through their bout, and Athos' cheeks heated as he noted, with detached satisfaction, how good they both were, their form, their movements. It was basically only Athos' years of training that kept him counting touches and calling positions while he shamelessly ogled his boyfriends.

His boyfriends. He could feel himself grinning.

Aramis threw his body out of Porthos' way and snapped his épée up to graze Porthos' outstretched wrist. Porthos swore, dropping his sabre with a laugh as Athos called, "Point." 

"Match point," Aramis said gleefully, reaching up with his free hand and tearing his mask off, and his smile only widened as Porthos did the same. That filthy smile was too much of a temptation, and Porthos dropped his sabre in favor of catching Aramis around the waist and hauling him close. He kissed Aramis so hard Aramis bent back under the force of it, and Aramis threw his arms around Porthos' neck and kissed him back with abandon.

"That was great," Porthos said when they broke apart, nuzzling at Aramis' cheek. "You haven't been that fast in weeks."

"Thank you." Aramis was flushed, smiling helplessly, and he leaned into Porthos' caresses. "Guess I'm not distracted anymore."

"Or at least, a more pleasant distraction?" Athos asked, and the look Aramis gave him made every cell in his body light up with excitement. 

"Something like that," Aramis purred. He dropped his mask and handed his épée to Porthos, never once breaking eye contact with Athos, and Athos' spine literally tingled. Aramis took three steps towards him like a stalking panther, and then actually, honest-to-God _pounced_.

Athos' breath left his body in a rush as he rolled back onto the mat with Aramis on top of him, and all sense of where they were and what they were supposed to be doing went flying from his head. Aramis was warm and heavy and his kisses were biting, demanding, and Athos arched up as he kissed back, trying to match Aramis step for step. They could have been on the moon for all he knew. He just wanted Aramis to keep, for the love of God, keep kissing him.

He let out absolutely the most undignified whine as Aramis pulled back, and Aramis' lips pulled into a smile. "Now who's being distracted?" he asked, and Porthos' laugh reminded Athos what they were actually trying to do.

He dropped his head back to the mats with a groan, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Is it going to be like this all the time?" he said, trying and failing to keep the plaintive note from his voice. "I'm not used to this."

"They say," Aramis sighed happily, rolling off to one side of him, "that the hormone flush only lasts a few weeks. But who knows, really. We could be distracting each other for the rest of the year."

"Rest of our careers," Porthos said sagely.

"The rest of our _lives,_ " Athos said in mock-despair, without really considering the implications of his wording.

When Aramis literally scrambled back on top of him to kiss him with desperate fervor, Athos realized more fully what he'd said. He flushed all over, in a complicated mix of pride and embarrassment and fear that they wouldn't trust him to mean it--

Then Porthos landed on the mat beside them and took his turn when Aramis broke away for air. By the time he was done holding Athos' head steady and kissing him deep and wet, Athos was trembling all over and seriously considering revising his position on sex in the fencing studio.

"Thanks," Porthos said when they broke apart, his voice a breathless growl, and Athos felt Aramis' sympathetic shudder against him. 

"I mean it," Athos said. He had to force the words out, three monosyllables that still weren't the ones he felt sure he needed to say, but maybe this would do for now.

Porthos sighed and smiled, resting his forehead against Athos', and Aramis leaned in to nuzzle at them both, too. His gentle sigh echoed in the wide, empty room, off the mirrors and mats, and Athos felt something click and settle in his bones.

It was so good to be connected again, here, in their studio. Home was one thing. This place, for Athos, at least, meant a hell of a lot more.

Athos let out a long breath and rested his head against theirs. He felt so safe with them.

"I think it's your turn for a bout," Aramis said, tracing his nose against Athos'. "Winner taps out."

"Yeah," Athos agreed, the word more a contented puff of air than anything, and sat back. He felt centered, just being close to them. Everything was easier. 

"C'mon," Porthos said. His smile was warm and gentle, and he took Athos' hand to pull him to his feet. Athos picked up his mask and foil, and his feet felt more solid on the mat than they had on Saturday. His foil fit his hand better, his mask wasn't as heavy as it had been. 

"He's bouncing," Aramis said to Porthos with a grin, and Athos hid his smile and pretended to flip him with the tip of his foil. Aramis ducked, laughing, and settled into the spot Athos had taken to referee their bout. 

"He does seem pretty chipper," Porthos agreed, his brown eyes so deep and soft that Athos could only flash him a smile before he had to look away. "So what are we playing for this time?"

"Oh, I dunno," Aramis said, so casually Athos was instantly suspicious, "want to say--whoever wins gets a sexual favor from their referee?"

Athos and Porthos shared a very long look.

"What kind?" Athos asked, keeping his voice just as casual as Aramis' had been. Porthos' grin twitched up at one corner.

Aramis sat crosslegged on the mats. At Athos' question, he grinned, cocked one knee up, and let his legs splay open. It was an unbelievably blatant _fuck me,_ and Athos was just as much of a fool for it as he'd been the first time.

He looked back over at Porthos, to find Porthos looking steadily down at Aramis, his jaw set against the furious wanting blush Athos could see creeping up his neck. "You really gotta stop doing that," Porthos said conversationally. "I don't really want to make Athos mad, breaking his rule about sex in the studio."

"I would break it myself," Athos said, trying to keep his voice steady. "He keeps offering himself up as a prize, Porthos."

"Like he thinks he's gonna offend us if he asks for real," Porthos said, heat and affection flashing in his eyes. "Like, he could just _ask_ us if he wants one of us to fuck him."

Aramis' deep flush was incredibly gratifying. "I like being fought over," Aramis said, blinking appealingly up at them. It was incredibly calculated.

It was incredibly effective.

Athos and Porthos shared another long, despairing look, and Aramis' smile widened. "So? Yes?"

Athos put his mask on to hide his blush. "Fine by me."

"Sounds fun," Porthos agreed, and shot Athos a wolfish grin as he put his own mask on. "We gotta stop bringing sex into this, though, I can't fucking fence with a hard-on."

"Amateur," Athos shot back, and Aramis could barely stop cackling delightedly long enough to announce _en garde._

Athos would feel awkward about it later, but honestly, this felt better to him than some of the sex they'd been having. Having all his focus on Porthos; watching his every movement, checking for openings and staying out of the way, letting his instincts take over and his reflexes rule. This was his element. He knew just what to do, here.

Only Porthos did, too. And Porthos hadn't gotten to have his turn with Aramis yet.

Athos realized three touches in that Porthos was going to win this bout. He couldn't be upset, though. There was something absolutely glorious about losing to Porthos. Porthos was pure contained force and focus, and with something to fight for, there was no stopping him. 

Athos had never lost a fight so happily in his life. Or been quite so aroused when it was over.

"Match point," Aramis said when Porthos' sabre slashed across Athos' hip for the seventh time, and he sounded a little breathless. Athos understood. He felt the same way. _God,_ Porthos was magnificent.

Athos reached up to pull his mask off, knowing his face wouldn't hide a bit of his arousal and not really caring, and Porthos did the same. 

He looked amazing. Taller, straighter, grinning at them with just a sheen of sweat on his dark skin, and Athos literally swayed on his feet.

"Good job," he said, dropping his foil and reaching out to wrap Porthos' fingers in his. One look and a squeeze of his hand told Porthos everything he needed to--then Athos smiled and jerked his head at Aramis.

Porthos grinned back, a slow-burning smile that made Athos' head buzz with anticipation, then he dropped Athos' hand and treated Aramis to the stalking-predator approach.

Aramis' mouth hung open slightly as he looked up at Porthos, his cheeks flushed and his own skin shiny with sweat. Porthos flowed smoothly down to his knees on the mat in front of Aramis, and Aramis leaned up into him like Porthos was a magnet, his face going soft with that open, needy look he'd had Sunday afternoon.

Athos' knees went weak just _watching_ them kiss. There was nothing, nothing at all, like the way Porthos kissed like he was _claiming_ something, the way Aramis pushed into him with a hungry groan and the way they clutched at each other. 

Athos half-stumbled his way to the mat beside them so he could watch. Aramis reached out a hand to hook him closer, twisting his fingers into Athos' and holding him tight, but he didn't stop kissing Porthos, didn't stop the low, soft moan he was pouring into Porthos' mouth. 

Porthos gently pulled away, then, holding Aramis' face in his hands, and Aramis blinked dazedly, surfacing from a dream. "Promise for later?" he asked, his voice as clumsy as Athos' had been earlier.

Porthos nodded, his eyes hot, and Aramis sighed and fell into him again.

A knock on the door sent all three of them a foot in the air with surprise.

 _Other people existed?_ Athos thought wildly, and looked around at the two of them.

His heart sank when he saw the way Aramis had shrunk into Porthos, his eyes huge and glassy. All the blood had drained from his face--he was nearly as pale as his fencing jacket, staring fixedly at the floor, and Athos suddenly, viscerally remembered what he'd said about getting caught in high school.

What had happened after.

"Here," Porthos said quietly, and put his arms even tighter around Aramis. From the look on his face, he remembered, too. "Aramis, it's okay, we're here."

Athos shifted, moving carefully between Porthos and Aramis and the door, and cleared his throat. "Yes?"

The doorknob turned, and Treville stepped into the doorway. 

Fencers and coach blinked at each other in surprise.

"Oh," Athos said. It was literally the only sound he could make himself produce. He could feel his face on the verge of combusting, and his stomach had dropped to somewhere in his knees. He hadn't been aware until just now how compromising a position they were in, so close together, practically in each other's laps.

He was still holding Aramis' hand. 

"Oh," Treville said, his voice as neutral as ever. "I was wondering who was here."

Porthos saved them. He spoke up, as bright and casual as if Treville had walked in on them actually fencing instead of making out and holding hands. "Hey, coach," he said, shifting his weight so he could shamelessly pull Aramis fully into his lap. "Thought you were on break."

"I am," Treville said, leaning in the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest. "I forgot a packet of scholarship applications, I came to bring them home so I could look over them." His eyes were tracking back and forth over the three of them, and Athos suddenly had the impression that Treville was trying not to laugh. 

Treville had known, before, Athos remembered then. Treville had covered for Athos, during the tournament, when he'd been so shaken up about Aramis--Treville seemed to have known, then. What did he think now?

"It's nice to see you three have made up," Treville said then, and was he trying not to smile? Yes. Yes, he was.

Well. That answered that question. Athos' face grew, if possible, even hotter. This was like getting caught by his father. No, this was _worse_ than getting caught by his parents. Treville most likely actually gave a shit.

"Yes, sir," Athos said, because he had to say _something_ , and his voice came out a strangled croak. He cleared his throat, mortified, and yes, Treville was definitely chewing on the inside of his cheek. "We. Um. That is." He couldn't even get a sentence out, for fuck's sake, Athos wanted the ceiling to crack in half so he could just float up into the space and disappear from this conversation completely, dear God, he'd never been so embarrassed in his life.

"We're dating," Porthos said, blunt as ever. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Treville shook his head, his brows lifting slightly, and his lips were twitching at the corners, and Athos was so unbelievably relieved. "I was wondering when," was all he said. There was a softness in his eyes that Athos had very rarely seen, but Treville was just as direct as ever when he looked right at them and added, "Be careful with each other."

Athos swallowed. His eyes blurred slightly, warm with a wholly different feeling, and he nodded. "Yes, sir," he said again.

Treville nodded, then his eyes shifted slightly over Athos' shoulder. His brow furrowed. "Aramis? Are you all right?"

Athos glanced over his shoulder, and went cold at what he saw.

Aramis had burrowed into Porthos' chest, his eyes still glassy and his face whiter than ever. His fingers were frozen, curled around Athos'. 

Athos completely forgot Treville was in the room. All he could think about was Aramis. "Aramis?" He moved closer, switching hands so he could put one arm around Aramis and Porthos both, taking Aramis' hand with his other and squeezing it tightly.

"Aramis, we aren't in trouble," Porthos murmured in his hair, and he flashed Athos a worried look. "It's okay."

"I know," Aramis ground out, trembling between them. "I know, I--I can't--"

"It's okay," Athos said, holding him tightly. "I promise, we aren't going anywhere."

Athos jumped when Treville said his name. When he looked back, he saw Treville seeming more worried than Athos had ever seen him. "Should I go?"

"No," Aramis said, sounding like his throat had been scraped raw. "Please don't."

Treville hovered by the door, half like he wanted to move, half like he thought he should still go, and he flashed Athos a very clear _please explain?_

"He..." Athos didn't know how much was his to tell, but Aramis squeezed his hand, and Athos took that as a sign to go on. "He got caught in high school, once, they--"

Treville's face darkened with anger as he held up a hand, and Athos was so relieved he didn't have to say anything else. Treville moved a little closer into the room, crouching down so he was on their level, and his voice was soft when he spoke again. "Aramis, I'm not angry. I'm not going to punish anyone or take anyone away."

Aramis blinked, his jaw twitching, and Athos stroked his wrist. Treville would never. Treville was fine.

"None of you have done anything wrong," Treville said, with a warmth he rarely showed. "I'm glad you three are finally being honest with each other."

Aramis sucked in a deep breath and nodded mechanically, still clinging hard to Porthos. "Thank you, coach," he said, his voice unsteady, and managed a faint smile. Some of the color was coming back into his face, and his fingers unclenched a little around Athos'.

Treville smiled encouragingly at him, and Aramis eased a little more. He sniffed, rubbed his cheek against Porthos' chest to wipe his tears away, and let out an awkward little laugh. Athos could see his ears burning. "I'm...I'm sorry, I just. Flashback, I guess."

"No need to apologize," Treville said. "It was my fault, I should have given you more warning." His pale eyes flickered over to Athos, then, and they shadowed slightly. "I just wanted to talk to Athos about something."

Athos did not instantly freeze and start panicking in front of Aramis. He was proud of himself for that.

Still, the refrain of _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_ that began pounding through his head was not going to help him calm Aramis down at all. He needed to help Aramis through his own anxiety attack before having his own. 

"Yes, sir," he said, his voice faint to his own ears under the anxious rush of blood. "About Saturday?"

Treville nodded, and Athos swallowed, breathed, kept his hands on Aramis and stayed close. "We can talk in my office," Treville offered, and Athos didn't have to feel Aramis' hand tighten on his again to know that was possibly the worst idea ever if he didn't want to trigger Aramis even more.

"No," he said instantly, sliding closer to Aramis. "No, here is--better."

He'd just have to stay here with them, then, while Treville asked him if he'd been stoned out of his head at the fencing meet.

Fuck fuck _fucking_ fuck, there had to be another way.

Well. There was the direct approach.

He tightened the arm he had around Aramis' shoulder, resolutely did not look at Porthos. The worry he knew he'd see there would make him lose his nerve. "Is it about how out of it I was on Saturday?" Athos asked, as bluntly as he could stand to.

Treville blinked. This was, Athos figured, possibly the first time Athos had brought up his own weaknesses without pushing or provocation. "Well, yes," Treville said, his eyes very keen on Athos' own, and he sat down on the mats. "I was...concerned."

They were having two conversations, one with their eyes and one with their voices. Concerned, Treville said out loud, as his eyes bored into Athos, told him _we had a deal and I need to know if you've broken it._

The deal. The fucking deal. No, he hadn't--he hadn't broken it in the letter of what they'd agreed on, but--

For the first time in three days, Athos remembered the pills in his drawer.

The sweat from their bout turned cold on his skin, and Athos went very still. 

_You'll only have broken it if you take them,_ he told himself, hollow as it sounded, as much of a pathetic distinction as it was. 

Still. Still, he hadn't.

Athos shook his head minutely, and Treville's face seemed to ease. A single eyebrow lifted--an invitation to explain. _What, then?_

Athos swallowed. Breathed. He could say this. He could admit this to Treville, to Aramis and Porthos. "I had a panic attack before the meet," he said.

The world did not end at his admitting it. Small miracles.

Treville's brows drew together, and Athos didn't know if it was sympathy, concern, annoyance-- _have you realized what a mess you picked as your team captain yet,_ he thought, almost hysterically, and just pushed on before his voice could disappear back down his throat. "And another one after the final."

"Dissociative episode, you said," Porthos said quietly, and Athos dared a look at him at last. Porthos didn't look happy, but his face was full of sympathy, the same worry he'd had on Saturday--like he wasn't quite sure what to do with Athos, if he was supposed to be gentle or something else.

Athos nodded, swallowing, and Aramis stroked his thumb over Athos' knuckle. Aramis' face had steadied a little, and his dark eyes were shining in the fluorescent light overhead.

"It was a bad day for a lot of reasons," Athos said, just to Aramis. He didn't want to make Aramis feel guilty; they were past that now. He wasn't going to punish Aramis for it--it wasn't all Aramis' fault. "It was the pressure."

"Ah," Treville said softly, and then Athos remembered he was supposed to be telling this to Treville, not Aramis and Porthos. But Treville didn't seem angry, when Athos looked sharply back to him--he seemed a little guilty, too. Great. Fantastic. Because Athos had totally meant to make everyone else feel responsible for his own fucked-up brain.

"I--that is, I didn't mean--" Athos rushed on, but Treville held up a hand.

"I understand," he said, and while the look in his eyes still said _we'll talk more about this later,_ Athos could tell he wasn't going to press it now. "Has it been worse, lately?"

'It' being Athos' mental health, presumably, and that, at least, Athos could answer honestly. He glanced back to Porthos and Aramis, and let himself relax.

"It was, yes," he said. "But it's much better now." 

Treville smiled. Maybe it was concern and sympathy earlier, then, and not annoyance. "Glad to hear it," he said. 

It meant more coming from Treville, who knew how bad it had _been._ Treville knew how bad the worst was. He'd seen it, more closely than anyone.

"I guess I can tell you, then," Treville went on, lacing his fingers over his knee and leaning forward slightly. "The USFA reps were very impressed."

Athos frowned at him. "With what?"

Treville blinked at him. He glanced over at Porthos and Aramis, as if he were confirming that Athos had indeed just asked that. "With you, Athos."

Athos shook his head slowly, cold to the delighted sounds Porthos and Aramis made. Treville couldn't mean it. "That isn't funny," he said.

Treville had his _patient dad_ look on. "Am I laughing?"

How? _How?_ He'd been shit, he'd thrown everyone off their game, he'd lost a round--

"Your last bout especially," Treville said, his voice carefully neutral again. "They were already impressed with your resilience, but they considered that a wonderful display of your intensity."

Athos barely bit back the sarcastic bark of laughter that wanted to rip from his chest. "My last bout was _intense_ because I was so fucking jealous I could barely see straight, I don't think I'll be repeating that performance any time soon."

Aramis squeezed his hand again, and Athos bit his lip. He hadn't meant to say that. 

"I just mean," he said, after taking a breath, "I don't want that to have been what impressed them."

"It wasn't just that," Porthos said, his voice a comfort. "Were you listening? Resilience. They could tell you were having a bad day, babe, and you impressed them anyway."

Treville nodded, smiling at Porthos. "Even so," he agreed quietly, and his eyes were warm and serious when he looked back at Athos. "They didn't just want to see that you were good. They wanted to know how you'd bounced back from your year off."

 _Year off,_ he said, but those serious eyes told Athos that they knew exactly what had happened in that year. 

They'd known? They'd known, and they were still interested?

"Oh," he said. "Well."

"They were very impressed," Treville said again. "And so was I."

Athos let the warmth drop into his stomach this time, let it spread from there out to his fingertips, and nodded. "Well," he said again, because he had to say something. "I guess that's good. Then."

"Oh, would you shut up," Aramis laughed, and pulled him closer. Athos was too relieved to hear Aramis laugh to let _dignity in front of Treville_ be an issue, and he surrendered to Aramis and Porthos' embrace.

"They like you," Porthos said, and pressed a smacking kiss to his hair. "I'm not gonna say I told you so, but--"

"Yes, you're always right," Athos said, blushing as Aramis squeezed him tightly. "Can we stop talking about me now?"

"The alternative," Aramis said, and kissed his hair as well, "is talking about me, I think, and I'm sort of _eh_ on that right now." 

"Feeling okay, then?" Porthos said quietly, and Athos wondered at how they could talk so casually, as if Treville weren't even there.

Aramis smiled at him. "Better," he said, and looked over at Treville. "Thanks for being...well, a decent human about this."

Treville nodded, and smiled at him. "My job is taking care of you," he said, and Athos felt the last tension drain from Aramis' arms.

"Thanks," Aramis echoed softly.

Treville smiled and got to his feet. "I think I've interrupted your afternoon enough, then," he said, and moved toward the door. "You'll leave the room as you found it, I'm sure?" The words, delivered so casually, had an unmistakable implication, and Athos flushed again.

_Do not have sex in my studio._

"Of course," he said, when he found his voice, and he felt Porthos shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Good afternoon, then," Treville said, flashed a smile over his shoulder, and left.

Athos sank against Aramis and Porthos, boneless with nerves, and opened his mouth. Aramis' hand clapped down over it before he could say anything, and when Athos frowned up at him, Aramis was looking at the door, like he was listening hard. 

"Wait for it," Aramis said, his eyes bright.

And a moment later, they heard it: Treville's laughter, muffled by the doors of the studio and his office.

"We've got a weird dad," Porthos said, and Athos could only nod in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you need me, [as always.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos tells a story. Things get cuddly--and even closer--again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your super-kind words, and for your patience. It's been very hard for me to write lately due to some very awful personal life happenings, so it's taken me longer to get this out than I'd have liked. Thank you all for still reading, and for loving these boys like I do.

They ended up half-carrying Aramis home, when the emotional crash caught up with him half an hour later. In that half hour, though, they'd fenced even better, dared each other even more, giddy with each other. It had felt--well, free, Athos supposed, was the only term really, after telling Treville. Less like they were sneaking around, or had something to hide.

Still. When Aramis pulled off his mask, sat down hard, and said, "Oh," there was only one place to be, and that was home.

Porthos just swung Aramis up into his arms and carried him up the hill when they got close to Alexander. Athos remembered the last time he'd done that--when they were chasing each other home after pub night, and Porthos literally threw Aramis over his shoulder. This time, however, he scooped Aramis up and carried him bridal-style, like he didn't weigh a thing, and Aramis only let out a single yelp of surprise before sinking into Porthos' hold and going quiet.

Athos swiped them into the dorm, holding the door for Porthos and calling the elevator. He was more worried than he'd thought he'd be, and he distracted himself by leaning against Porthos' side in the elevator, stroking Aramis' hair. 

He _was_ all right, wasn't he? He was going to be fine?

"You don't have to do this, you know," Aramis said softly, as the elevator stopped.

"Yeah, I do," Porthos said, and shifted Aramis in his arms to carry him down the hall. 

Porthos' face was a study in mixed emotions. Worry and concern twisted his forehead, but his eyes were soft, and his arms cradled Aramis as gently as Athos had ever seen him hold anything. 

"I can't believe you aren't even sweating," Aramis murmured against his chest, as Porthos carried him down the hall. "This is unbelievably hot, just so you know. I plan to ravage you thoroughly for it when my brain has stopped being terrible."

"Yeah, I know you are," Porthos said, and kissed his hair. 

Athos' room was dark already--it was nearly four, and the sun was on its way down--and it felt cozy, warm, -safe- when Athos turned on the desk lamp. Porthos sat down on the bed with Aramis still in his arms, and shifted until he was propped against the pillows with Aramis in his lap, held tight against his chest.

"I'm impressed," Athos said, as he sat down beside Porthos. He pressed up close to him, for once not caring if it seemed needy or touch-seeking, and Aramis sighed and shifted until his head was resting on Athos' shoulder.

"I aim to impress," Porthos said with a smile, stroking a protective hand over Aramis' flank. He pressed another kiss to Aramis' hair, and his voice went quieter, deeper. "We've got you, babe."

Aramis pressed his face into Athos' shirt and exhaled a long, trembling breath. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, you do."

Athos slipped his hand under Aramis' shirt, flattening his palm against the base of his spine, and traced his thumb back and forth against his skin. He wasn't sure what to say. What, or how, or even if he should say anything at all.

"I'm sorry for ruining the day," Aramis said, his voice muffled slightly.

And just like that, Athos knew what to say. "You haven't," he said, and rested his cheek on Aramis' forehead. "We're still here, we're still close and together. That was all I wanted from today."

"Still seems to be a big hit," Porthos agreed, and Athos could feel his hand moving back and forth, back and forth, on Aramis' thigh. Soothing. Athos let himself sink into it, too.

Aramis let out his breath, sighed, pressed closer into them. "Thanks."

"We can't always promise to be a hundred percent on, all the time," Athos said slowly, coming to the realization as he put the words out. "That isn't fair to any of us. We've got to be able to have bad days."

"Which this wasn't, even," Porthos pointed out, his hand closing gently on Aramis' thigh. 

"Yeah." Athos could feel Aramis relaxing more as they talked, melting into the both of them. His spine was still a rigid curve of tension, but his death grip on Porthos' shirt had eased. "Blip on the radar, really."

Porthos nodded, and his eyes on Athos were just this side of too soft and warm for Athos to handle with any kind of equanimity. Athos felt himself flush, and he looked away, leaning into Porthos and shifting his focus back to Aramis.

"Can you talk to me about something?" Aramis asked. "Anything, just something."

Athos knew that desperate little hitch in Aramis' voice--he'd heard it in his own more times than he'd care to count. Looking for a distraction. An escape.

Porthos hummed thoughtfully, and he rested his head against Athos'. "I told you yesterday about when Flea and I tried to go to high school," he said, never once stopping the steady motion of his hand against Aramis' skin. "My high school found out that we were--well, y'know, homeless kids. Drifters, grifters. Fitz--Mr. Fitzgerald, the college counselor in the office--Fitz actually gave a shit, though, and he convinced the principal to give us the weekend to find some place to live and someone to vouch for us."

Athos couldn't believe he'd never heard Porthos tell any of this story before--and he couldn't believe Porthos was telling them so easily. He'd always been so reticent with it before, and--in the car yesterday, it had seemed so hard for him. Maybe telling it to help Aramis made it easier?

Maybe Porthos finally felt like he could trust them with--all of him.

"So he drove me and Flea into the city," Porthos went on. "And me and her, we were sitting in the back seat, and I had the mark from her fingernails in my hand for hours, she was holding me so tight. We were scared fucking shitless, and I was ready to fight and run the second the car stopped, y'know, 'cause we had no idea where he was taking us. And we'd had people tell us before--"

He broke off at the last second, like he was stopping himself, and Athos glanced up at him. Porthos was chewing his cheek, frowning into space, and Athos covered Porthos' hand on Aramis with his own. 

"That they were going to help?" Athos asked, his throat tight. 

Aramis sighed softly. "And I'm guessing they didn't."

Porthos' eyes were heavier than Athos had seen them, and he shrugged one shoulder. "You know how it is."

No. No, Athos really, really didn't, but he wasn't fucking naive enough not to guess the rest. 

"So," Porthos said, and his voice softened, "you can imagine how confused we were when he pulled up to this big old brick house, four stories, like something out of a fucking TV show. There were kids on the steps, playing in the hedges and shit, and this tall lady on the top step watching 'em all. And they all looked taken care of--there weren't any big guys keeping them close, nobody seemed starved or bruised or anything. So we didn't bolt when the car stopped."

"Brave of you," Athos said, brushing his lips over Porthos' shoulder.

One corner of Porthos' mouth tugged up. "Stupid of us. We were both just so tired of running all the time, I think we were ready to grab onto anything that was standing still." As self-deprecating as he sounded, Athos could hear the wistfulness underneath. "I think Luisa took one look at us and knew Fitz had brought her some fucking hard-luck cases--I mean, we hadn't had a chance to wash our clothes in two weeks or something."

"Did you get to stay there?" Aramis asked, nestling his cheek in the hollow of Porthos' collarbone. His voice sounded more even, steadier--he was caught up in the story, like Athos, and it sounded like he was getting out of his head. "That first night?"

"Yeah," Porthos said, and Athos could hear his smile. "We came up the steps, she crossed her arms and took a look at us--I think she only gave us that first chance because it was Fitz who brought us. The house was full that day we came. But I remember she asked--"

His voice went dryer, sharper, and Athos was sure he used exactly the same intonation she had, because would Porthos ever forget the first words his new mother said to him? _"So what did you two do?_ And like a little shit, because I was so angry and scared, I just snapped right back, _try to go to fucking school."_

"Of course you did," Aramis murmured, and he nuzzled at the neck of Porthos' t-shirt, pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of this throat.

Porthos chuckled again, and he hugged Aramis a little tighter, like a comfort blanket. "I think that saved us. It got us in the door, anyway, and once we were inside we never left. She said if we could clean up the house and look after the littler kids that night, she'd make a space for us to crash." 

It was the echo of wonder in his voice that made Athos pause. He stroked his hand down Porthos' arm, and chewed at his lip for a moment before deciding just to ask. "That still surprises you?"

Porthos started, like he hadn't even thought about it--then sighed, cradling Aramis closer, shifting closer against Athos' side. "Me and Flea--we'd never had good experiences with...houses, shelters," he said. "Most--most homeless shelters, they don't just give shit away like that. There are rules, a billion of them, you have to sit through all kinds of lectures and..." He trailed off, the same way he had before, and Athos brushed a kiss over his shoulder, silent support. Porthos hummed softly and rested his cheek on Athos' hair. "We didn't get that Luisa had a different thing going."

"More of a home?" Aramis asked, his voice muffled against Porthos' skin.

Porthos nodded. "Permanent beds you can keep for a few years, longer if you work at the house, too--that was what me and Flea did. There are some more transitional ones, short-term stuff, whatever people need."

"I'm surprised there was ever any room at all," Athos said gently. "It sounds wonderful."

"It is," Porthos said. His hand moved restlessly on Aramis' arm, and then he said in a rush, "It's for--kids like us. Y'know. Bi, gay, trans kids. Nonbinary kids, queer kids, 'specially brown kids, black kids. People who'd been kicked out, or run away, or couldn't get in anywhere else because of who they were. Luisa--she said she never had a place where she could be out as a kid, I mean, it was the fifties, they had no clue what to do with trans girls. So she gave us a place." 

"Oh," Aramis breathed, and he pressed his face even harder into Porthos' skin. "Oh, she is a saint."

"Yeah." Porthos' voice was thick with pride. "She was at Stonewall, did I ever tell you? She _knows._ She's great."

"I can't wait to meet her," Athos said softly, resting against the two of them.

Aramis was crying, Athos could see, tears sliding slowly down his face and soaking Porthos' shirt. He wasn't shaking, there weren't any sobs, but Athos realized, then, why Porthos had decided to tell them the rest of this story, tell them this about his home. 

He wanted Aramis to know there were places like this, that people like Luisa had places for people like him, where they wouldn't be hurt the way Aramis had been. The way Aramis had had his trust abused by the people who were supposed to care for him.

He shifted to put his arms around both of them, holding them both close, and Porthos kissed his hair.

"I can't wait for her to meet the two of you," Porthos agreed. 

"I hope she likes us," Aramis said. He'd clearly meant for it to sound joking, and it was just as clearly not.

Porthos hugged him even tighter--tight enough that Aramis yelped and gave a watery hiccup of a laugh, his hands coming up to settle on Porthos' shoulders. "She will love you," Porthos said fiercely, "because you both are fucking phenomenal and I love you more than anything."

Athos squeezed him tightly--slightly overcome himself--and Porthos laughed, his tone shifting to something lighter, brighter. "Plus, you're both a hell of a lot better than the people I used to bring home in high school."

Athos _growled_ before he could stop himself.

There was a very surprised silence, as Porthos looked down at him and blinked, and Aramis twisted to give him an incredulous smile.

"Babe," Porthos said with a grin, "did you just--"

"No," Athos said, hiding his face in Aramis' neck, "I most certainly did not just--"

"Growl like a jealous grizzly bear," Aramis said, all traces of his sadness gone--he sounded fucking delighted. "Oh, Porthos, please go on, spare no detail."

"There's not that much to tell," Porthos said, still half-grinning. "I thought they were into me, but it turned out they were just treating me like a sideshow."

Athos failed to stifle another growl. Porthos rolled his eyes with a smile, but he blushed a little, too. Athos was glad it made Porthos happy instead of annoyed, that Athos wanted to kick the shit out of those assholes who'd made him feel inferior.

Porthos shrugged easily, shifting Aramis in his arms. "I didn't really give a shit at first--I was a stupid fucking teenager, I just wanted to get off. But after the fourth person who couldn't keep their voice down saying really offensive shit, Luisa told me to stop bringing trash home, it was setting a bad example." He grimaced in memory. "Then I actually took my head out of my ass and realized the abusive shit some of the littler ones had started bringing home, because they'd seen me doing it, they thought that was okay. I played bouncer for the next six months."

It did some very warm and wibbly things to Athos' insides, knowing that Porthos had watched so carefully over his siblings. Athos had never had anyone to do that for him--had done it so poorly for Thomas--knowing that Porthos had been able to fix his own mistake, to make it better for them...had _wanted_ to do that...

"It's incredibly inappropriate of me," Aramis murmured, "to want to fuck you into the bed after hearing all that, right?" 

Porthos laughed, and Athos flushed warm, gratefully distracted. 

Aramis twisted in Porthos' lap until he was straddling him, legs on either side of Porthos' hips. "I mean it, that's just--really awful of me, isn't it?"

Porthos grinned up at him. "Why, now?" He settled his hands on Aramis' hips, swaying him in closer.

"Why is it awful of me?" Aramis mock-sighed, leaning down and resting his forehead against Porthos'. "Because you're talking about your _family,_ and your siblings, and how you help literally everyone you meet, and all I can do is sit here thinking about how you're just absolutely fucking wonderful and gorgeous and how you _carried_ me all the way up here in those big strong arms of yours, because you knew I needed to be held."

Porthos laughed again, and he tightened his arms around Aramis, holding him closer. "These arms?" he asked, his voice pitching lower. "Holding you like this?"

Aramis shivered, and Athos couldn't blame Aramis at all. He wasn't even the one being held, and he felt his own spine wanting to arch and curve, fall into it.

Aramis' eyes had gone dark. "Are you seriously," Aramis laughed, sounding breathless, "seriously okay with me--taking your heartfelt sharing and getting disgustingly turned on?"

Porthos' smile was slow-burning, and Athos could feel it catching. "Since I used to worry it'd make you decide you didn't want to be my friend anymore--yeah, I'm really okay with it." 

He reached up and tilted Aramis' face closer, so they could see each other properly. "Do you have any idea," Porthos said, his voice still low and quiet, "how happy it makes me to be able to tell you both this? How fucking good I feel right now, knowing that you still see me the way you always have?" 

Athos pressed closer, his throat too tight for any words--he just hoped Porthos would know what he meant, that Athos, too, felt the same. Porthos smiled at him, and Athos knew that his meaning was understood.

"It's the best thing in the world," Porthos said, his eyes still locked on Athos, and he waited until Athos flushed and smiled back to shift his gaze to Aramis. "I'm so fucking glad to tell you these stories. But, y'know--" He slid his hand back down to Aramis' waist, a slow drag, and Athos could feel as well as see Aramis shiver in its wake. "They're some heavy stuff. I do not mind, at all, shifting gears from a few of those stories to something a lot more fun, with you."

Aramis' eyes shone in the lamp light, and even though his hips were hitching into Porthos' hand, he still looked hesitant. "I _want_ to, I just--I needed to be sure you didn't feel like I hadn't been caring about what you said. I'd--I would at least think we'd want to talk about more neutral topics for a bit--"

"Or," Porthos said, his hands dropping to ride low on Aramis' waist, "we could make out." 

Aramis flushed pink, his eyes darting to Athos under his half-lowered eyelids--like he was checking in, seeing if that was okay--

Athos didn't bother trying to hide his own blush, or the blatant interest he was sure had etched itself onto his face.

Aramis' smile grew, and he looked back to Porthos. "I guess if you really _want_ t-- _mmnh_ \--" He didn't even get to finish before Porthos had pulled him down by the hair for a kiss, and Aramis slumped onto Porthos' chest, boneless within seconds.

He seemed so soft, so needy. Without thinking, just wanting to touch, Athos ran his fingertips down the curve of Aramis' spine.

Aramis gave a full-body shudder, and both he and Porthos groaned at that. Porthos' eyes flickered open, just to see, and Athos smiled at him and traced his fingers back up Aramis' back. Aramis shuddered again, letting out a low moan against Porthos' lips, and Porthos grinned and let his eyes fall back shut, pulling Aramis closer. He did it by the hair again, and Aramis shivered, his hips circling slowly against Porthos' lap. 

"Do _you_ have any idea," Athos heard himself saying, his voice so low, lower than he'd ever heard it, "how good you two look together?"

Aramis pulled away from Porthos with an indecently wet sound and gasped, "No, but you should absolutely tell us," as he arched to nip at the stubble along Porthos' jaw.

"In excruciating fucking detail," Porthos agreed, one of his hands sliding to cup Aramis' ass as the other twisted lightly, over and over, through his hair. Aramis sighed, his eyes falling shut, and he pressed up into Athos' touch, curling his body against Porthos'. 

"You just fit so well." Athos still couldn't believe this was real--something he could have, something he could touch. "Every time you move, it's a response, or in sync..." He let out a wanting sigh of his own, as Aramis and Porthos rolled sinuously against each other, grinning and staring into each other's eyes. "I've been here for the whole thing," he said, his palm flattening against Aramis' back as he lay more against Porthos, "and even I sometimes can't believe it's only been a few days. It's like you've been together forever."

Aramis' smile gentled, and he rested his forehead against Porthos', rubbing their noses together. "Hear that?" he murmured against Porthos' lips. "You're so good with us, it's like you've had us for years."

"Not that good," Porthos growled, and pressed up to kiss Aramis breathless again. "Gonna need the practice, know what I mean?"

"Absolutely," Aramis moaned, arching his back and twisting his head so Porthos could kiss his neck. He jolted and his voice broke when Porthos' lips traced over that sensitive spot at his collar. "God, abso- _lutely_ , oh, fuck, can we have sex now, please--"

"We are trying to be romantic," Athos drawled, his heart bubbling up on a wave of joy. The teasing, God, he still wasn't fucking used to being able to tease them like this, or to have Aramis asking _them_ for what he needed. 

"Barring-- _ahn_ \--barring," Aramis panted, between moans, "that unfortunately timed trauma flashback, and honestly I think unabashedly filthy sex would be a great way of getting over that whole abandonment issues thing--I have been half-hard since you two fenced for my honor back in the studio, _please_ \--"

Porthos bit down on the mark that still glowed at Aramis' throat, and Aramis thrashed in their hold with a cry. 

"That what you think will help right now?" Porthos murmured against his skin. "It won't be too much?"

Aramis shook his head desperately, his back flexing and curving under Athos' hand, and Athos leaned in to kiss his shoulder, his temple, he couldn't help it. "No," Aramis said, his voice nearly gone. "No, no, it'll be perfect. I was so scared you two were going to disappear, that someone was going to take you away from me, but if I can feel you both--"

"Yeah," Porthos said, his voice a bass rumble as he traced his nose along the line of Aramis' jaw. "Yeah, I wanna feel you, too, after all that."

Then his eyes flashed up to Athos, worried suddenly. Athos was confused for a moment--before he understood.

"I don't feel left out," he said softly, reassuring them. He didn't. He was still here in bed with them, still touching them both--and after Treville, Athos had really had his fill of being the center of attention today. "I want to see you together. I want that, too. I'll be right here."

Porthos' whole body sagged a little in relief, and Aramis' smile was so unbelievably tender around the heat in his eyes. "You'll tell us if you change your mind?" he murmured, reaching out to stroke Athos' hair back behind his ears.

Athos turned his face into the touch, and shivered as he felt Porthos' lips on his cheek. He twisted again to catch the kiss, then pulled away with a smile. "I'll tell you," he promised, smiling at the both of them. They were gorgeous. He just wanted to watch them together.

And as Aramis and Porthos went back to kissing each other, Athos felt himself settle again, like he had in the studio. He didn't have to be _on_ for them, he didn't have to play any kind of role. 

He twisted to dig in the desk drawer for a condom, for the lube, so they wouldn't have to stop when they needed them, then settled down against Porthos' side with a happy sigh. He rested his head on Porthos' shoulder, watched him and Aramis bite at each other's lips and lick into each other's mouths, and felt calm, easy.

"You really do look amazing together," he said, his voice still hushed, when they rested their foreheads together, breathing too hard and smiling too wide to kiss anymore. "You complement each other so--so well, perfectly."

Aramis sighed against Porthos' mouth, and Porthos answered with a satisfied hum. His broad palms stroked down Aramis' back, and when his hands slid to cup Aramis' ass, Aramis groaned and pushed up into his touch. "Porthos," he moaned, "oh, Porthos, please."

Pressed all against Porthos as he was, Athos could feel Porthos' shudder at that. "Okay," Porthos said, his arms trembling a little as he pulled his hands back. "Okay, gonna need to get out of these clothes now."

"Yes," Aramis agreed shakily, and the next few moments were a feverish scramble to strip down. When they'd finished and were--again, Athos thought with a smile--down to nothing but their skin together, Athos knelt beside Porthos and Aramis. Aramis had ended up sprawled on top of Porthos' chest, his own thighs spread wide and bracketing Porthos', and Porthos was holding him close, kissing him hard and fierce as Aramis sighed softly into his mouth.

Athos watched them kiss desperately, holding each other tightly and trying to crawl inside each other's skin, and decided that he did, after all, have a part to play in this.

He leaned over for another condom, keeping a hand on Aramis' flank to stay connected, and settled back onto the bed beside them, leaning down to brush a kiss over Aramis' shoulder. "I just had an idea," he murmured. 

"I love your ideas," Aramis said. His voice sounded a little strained--Porthos was cupping his ass again, fingers starting to grip and release, and Athos had to take a second to stare appreciatively.

"Did you change your mind?" Porthos asked, tilting his head so they could make eye contact. He looked like he was only barely clinging to his own _take care, be good, be nice_ standards, and Athos grinned at him.

"A little," Athos said, and kissed Aramis' shoulder again. "Aramis, can I--get you ready?"

Aramis' reaction was gratifyingly intense--he shuddered all over again, letting out a startled moan against Porthos' mouth, and he twisted to catch Athos in a messy, wet kiss. He was already sweating a little, his skin covered in a faint sheen in the light, and oh, Athos had to hold him again, he still wasn't _used_ to this, was he ever going to be?

"Yeah," Aramis breathed against his lips. "Yeah, Athos, please."

This time, Athos felt a lot steadier. This time, he felt like he knew how to let it happen slowly, how to draw it out a little for Aramis. (This time, he slipped his fingers into a spare condom first, because he wanted to be able to touch them later without having to run off and wash his hands. Aramis' minor breakdown was still terrifyingly immediate in his head, and Athos planned on not leaving his side for at least the rest of the day.)

Aramis made the most amazing sounds against Porthos' lips and skin as Athos fingered him open. Breathy gasps, a steady low moan, and the occasional jerky groan, when Athos either purposefully or accidentally brushed his prostate--which admittedly stopped being accidental, and became a whole lot more slow and deliberate, the moment Athos figured out what he was aiming for.

"You're torturing me," Aramis got out at last, sounding like his throat had been scraped raw, after Athos had picked a particular rhythm that kept getting _just_ barely close enough to hit his sweet spot. Athos felt a faint jolt of terror that maybe he was actually doing it completely wrong, until Aramis followed it up with a strained half-chuckle and a choked, "Porthos, we're dating a fucking sadist."

"I would believe that," Porthos said, his head tilted back on the pillow and his eyes squeezed shut (he looked like he was barely clinging to his self-control, and Athos felt a shiver of pleased warmth at that), "if I couldn't feel your cock dripping wet on my stomach."

"That's the point," Aramis gasped, his hips hitching back as Athos circled his thumb around the outside edge of his rim. "Any decent human being would have at least given me the _option_ of begging to come by now."

"Forgive me for thinking you wanted this to last," Athos murmured, nipping gently at the back of Aramis' neck. He felt so incredibly proud, being able to do this for Aramis--it was so exciting, it made him feel a hundred different kinds of protective and strong and wanting and _happy_.

Aramis made a disgusted sound. "Not this long!" Athos and Porthos shared a grin over his shoulder, and Aramis let out a groan halfway between need and affection. "Stop _smiling_ like that, fuck, it's just making it worse--I'm dying here, please, somebody--fingers, cock, I need more."

"Is that a request?" Athos delighted in the shiver that he felt shudder through Aramis' back, at the feel of his own words against his skin, and Porthos was beaming at him.

Aramis swore at him, his voice shaking as Athos spread his fingers slightly. "You're a fucking sadist and a tease and you think you're so _fucking_ funny, we never should have taught you how to do thi-- _ohh,_ fuck," he broke off on a gasp, as Athos started driving his fingers in harder, faster. 

"You should see his face," Porthos said, his eyes locked on Aramis and his other hand reaching around to twine his fingers in Athos' left hand, resting steady on Aramis' hip. "Athos, you're making his eyes go all black, he keeps digging his teeth into those lips of his."

"Why are you biting your lips?" Athos asked, kissing Aramis' neck again. "We're alone, remember? We can be as loud as we want." He twisted his fingers, pushed them in and curled them up, and Aramis' full-body shudder came with a half-articulated cry this time.

"You made me scream," Athos reminded him. The thought sent a twist of heat on his stomach, remembering the way Aramis had held Athos safe against his chest and stripped away his inhibitions, his nerves--made him safe and loved. "Don't you want to?" 

"Yes," Aramis gasped, his hips twitching back into every one of Athos' strokes. "Fuck, yes, I want to scream."

Athos kissed Aramis' neck again, spreading his lips to lick at him, soft and wet. "Then scream," he said, and bit down as he drove his fingers in again.

And Aramis _did,_ a full-throated cry of pure sex as his cock jerked and splashed Porthos' stomach with pre-come. _"Athos!"_

The sheer need in his voice struck straight to Athos' heart, and a wave of protectiveness tangled with all the desire and love filling him up. "I'm here, I've got you," he said, curling his body against Aramis' back and kissing his cheek. "We both do."

Aramis moaned, arching to press himself more fully against Athos' chest. "Fuck," he said, the word a whole sentence in itself. "Fuck, fuck, Athos."

"You have seriously moved up to advanced dirty talk, babe," Porthos said hoarsely, his fingers tightening over Athos'. "Great job, A-plus."

Athos didn't try to hide his smile, and Porthos' eyes were as full of affection as lust as he grinned back. Then his eyes shifted to Aramis, and Athos felt so very privileged to watch the way Porthos' face softened, the way his eyes filled with such deep emotion. It was the same way they had their first night together, when Aramis had crawled into his lap and Porthos had finally realized he was about to have every one of his dreams come true at once. 

"You ready, you think?" he asked, that deep voice so impossibly low Athos felt it in his bones, and Aramis let out a shaky sigh. 

"Maybe a little more," he said, shifting so Athos had a better angle. "You're--fuck, Porthos, you're just so fucking _big,_ I--"

"You don't have to apologize," Porthos said, his hands stroking down Aramis' sides and thighs. "Hurting you's the last thing I want, we can take all the time you need."

Aramis' smile spread slow and sweet, a curl of heat making him mischievous, and his eyes flickered meaningfully down to where Porthos' cock lay alongside his own, just as hard and leaking as Aramis'. _"All_ the time?"

Porthos' hand caught his chin, and Aramis looked back up, startled, to meet his eyes.

"All the time you need," Porthos repeated, his thumb stroking over Aramis' bottom lip. "Two more minutes, two more hours, two more days or weeks or months, Aramis, I don't want to do this until the only thing you're gonna feel is how good I'm making it, do you get me?"

Aramis shivered, his eyes locked on Porthos'. With a soft sound he stretched forward to meet Porthos in a kiss, and sighed out against his lips when the motion shifted Athos' fingers in him. "I love you," he murmured.

Athos felt every part of Porthos relax, and his eyes were warm and dark and full of love, so much so that Athos had to swallow down his own sudden surge of emotion, watching them look at each other like that.

Aramis sighed and settled down against Porthos' chest, arching his back so beautifully and gracefully that Athos' mouth went dry. "Athos, keep going, please."

"Of course," Athos said, because what else could he do but that, but anything and everything Aramis wanted from him? 

He stopped teasing, then, and moved his fingers in long, steady slides, pressing and twisting the way Porthos had shown him the first time. Aramis sighed, rolling his hips back into Athos' touch, his legs spread wide and the curve of his back sinfully tempting. 

"You are the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my life," Athos said, too stripped-down to his nerves to be anything but honest, and Aramis purred and turned his face into Porthos' chest. 

"Thank you, love," he said, his voice soft and pleased, and Porthos stroked his hair, his back, kissed every part of him he could reach.

"Our amazing, gorgeous, fucking perfect love," Porthos said, his eyes half-lidded and warm as he looked up at Athos. Athos smiled back, spreading his other hand flat on Aramis' back, his fingers and palm burning with Aramis' heat. 

"Thank you," Aramis sighed again, sounding like he was floating on it, and his eyes were shut, his face blissfully easy. 

Athos and Porthos shared a fond look over his head, and Porthos brushed his fingers over the back of Athos' hand before sliding further down Aramis' spine. Aramis shivered and moaned as Porthos stroked his hand over his ass, and Porthos' smile was a little hotter, this time. "Yeah? Feels good?"

"Yeah," Aramis said, his voice slightly thick against Porthos' chest. He moaned a little louder as Porthos closed his hand, cupping him firmly, and Porthos' breath hissed between his teeth, his head falling back again. Athos wondered if Aramis' cock had twitched between them again; he could bet.

"Do you--" Porthos' voice rasped, and he had to swallow before trying again. "Aramis, do you want to come before I fuck you? Would it be easier, or would you be too sensitive?"

"Oh," Aramis groaned, and Athos felt him _clench_ around his fingers at the thought. He bit off his own curse, lightheaded with his own pulse of lust, and Aramis groaned again. "I--oh, Porthos, I--" He swallowed, pressing his forehead into Porthos' chest, and breathed a few times before he lifted his head to answer. "I don't get too sensitive, no, but--I want you in me first, I think."

Porthos nodded, took a steadying breath, and his eyes flicked up to Athos--like he needed the help, the stability. Athos met his gaze, held it, and nodded reassuringly at him. Porthos seemed to know best right now, and Athos trusted him to take care. 

"Okay," Porthos said, a little strained, "okay, then we do that. How you doing?"

Aramis sighed out blissfully. "So good. I--" He curled his head shyly into the crook of Porthos' neck, blushing just a bit with whatever blood was left above his waist. "It feels so good to have you both taking care of me."

"It's good to be able to," Athos said softly, stroking his hand over Aramis' back. 

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, smiling at Athos. "Aramis, you have no idea how long we've just wanted to have you safe here, like this..."

Aramis moaned against his chest, mouthing at Porthos' breastbone, and Athos felt in his fingertips the little frisson of energy that pulsed down Aramis' back. "I can't believe I get to have this," he murmured. "I can't believe it."

"Believe it," Porthos said, and kissed his hair. "If I can believe it, you can."

Aramis lifted his head, searching for a kiss, and Porthos gave it to him. Porthos gave everything to him, and Athos smiled as he watched.

Carefully, he twisted his fingers, searching for just the right place, and Aramis let out a low, contented moan against Porthos' lips as Athos found it. "Yes," he sighed, almost a hiss. "Yes, yes, that's perfect, Athos."

"Ah, Aramis, you made him blush," Porthos said like the traitor he was, and Athos glared at him even as he felt his cheeks heat. Aramis laughed, twisting to look at him, and Athos blushed deeper even as he smiled at Aramis, let himself be seen.

He never stopped the motion of his hand, not once through all this, and he could see it on Aramis' face every time he shifted. Aramis looked so content, like he was riding a wave of pleasure, and--he almost looked drunk on it, drugged, but it didn't make Athos spiral. He'd been here to do it all; he knew exactly what Aramis was high on. 

"I'm good," Aramis said, curled safe in Porthos' arms, his eyes (so close to fully black, now) warm on Athos. "I'm good, I'm ready, I want you, Porthos."

Athos could feel Porthos' tremble of anticipation, and he pulled his hand slowly free and smiled at the two of them. He stripped off the condom he'd had over his fingers and threw it toward the trash can, taking up the other one and passing it to Porthos. 

Aramis pushed himself up a little unsteadily--his knees wobbled, and Athos caught him, helping him straighten. Aramis let out a breathless laugh, twisting his head to brush a kiss over Athos' lips. "My legs are already jelly," he laughed, "will you help me?"

For once, Athos didn't try to stifle the "Always" that came immediately to his lips. Aramis' soft kiss of gratitude made his heart melt behind his ribs.

The tear of the condom packet opening made them break apart, and Aramis let out a low, hungry sound as Porthos quickly rolled it on. He was touching himself as little as possible, his teeth gritted, and Athos flashed him an amused grin.

"Blame me?" Porthos said, grinning right back, and motioned for the lube. Athos tossed it to him (he'd kept it under his leg to stay warm, he knew what he was doing this time) and helped Aramis shift up a bit. Aramis leaned back against him, his body twitching back and forth in anticipation, and Athos kissed his hair.

"All right," Porthos said, tossing the bottle aside. "Aramis?"

"Yes," Aramis murmured, and he slid forward to kiss Porthos again, soft and lingering.

Porthos pressed up into the kiss, his left hand tightening possessively on Aramis' hip as he took himself in hand. When he moved, guiding Aramis gently down onto him, Athos couldn't look away from the two of them.

When he and Aramis had done this, two nights ago, it had been so heated. They'd been wild for each other, and everything had just been so _much._

This--this was slow. Achingly slow. Porthos moved so very carefully, every single motion totally deliberate--it took ages, what had to be full minutes of slow back-and-forth thrusting, just a little more each time, before he let Aramis sink down fully on him. They were both dripping with sweat as he bottomed out, and Aramis gasped for air, leaning back and letting Athos take his weight. 

"Oh," he choked, his skin glowing with heat and sweat in the light. "Oh, oh, oh."

"Fuck," Porthos whispered. He stared up at Aramis, his hands tight in the crease of Aramis' hips and thighs, and Athos could see his eyes shining, his jaw working. "Fuck, Aramis, you feel incredible."

"Holy God," Aramis ground out, his head falling back on his neck, resting against Athos'. "Holy, holy fuck, I-- _Jesus,_ fuck." His voice was ragged at the edges, his mouth half-open and his eyes heavy-lidded, and he looked like he was on another planet.

"Are you okay?" Athos held him close, settling Aramis more carefully against him, against Porthos. "It's not too much?"

"It's just on the right side of it," Aramis gasped, and he hitched his hips forward just a tiny bit. The motion sent both him and Porthos groaning, and Aramis shuddered, blinking his eyes open to look down at Porthos. "God. Good God, Porthos."

"Yeah," Porthos said hoarsely, reaching up to him. "I know."

And Athos knew, because he knew them, and because he knew the look in their eyes--they weren't talking about just the sex anymore. 

Aramis took Porthos' hands in his, trembling as they were, and lifted them to his lips. He closed his eyes, and Porthos traced his fingers over Aramis' lips, his cheeks. Aramis smiled, kissed his fingertips, and caught them again. 

With a tenderness that brought a stinging heat to Athos' eyes, Aramis laced Porthos' fingers in his and pressed them to his heart. Porthos laughed, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and Aramis smiled.

Porthos grinned back. "Now?"

Aramis nodded gravely. "Now."

It was that simple.

They stayed slow, so slow at first. An easy rhythm, gentle almost, and Athos knelt beside Aramis and held him up, taking his weight so all he had to do was find his own angle. One of his hands twined with Porthos' on Aramis' hip, and he felt so connected to them both, seeing them like this, getting to touch them while they did this to each other.

Neither of them tried to hold back the sounds they made. Porthos' low pants, Aramis' soft whines and groans--they all mixed in the room, humid with sweat and sex and gasping for air, and Athos just breathed it in. He couldn't believe he got to see this, be part of this--that he still felt so _much_ a part of it when he wasn't doing anything more concrete than holding them. 

There was so much love in this tiny room, so much that they were finally letting themselves feel in as many ways as they wanted to. His lungs were thick with it, his body was drenched in it, and Athos floated with them.

Aramis rocked back and forth, riding every one of Porthos' slow thrusts, and Porthos never looked away from him. Aramis looked-- _exalted,_ there really was no other word but that one that came to Athos' mind. His eyes were half-closed, looking down at Porthos or up at the ceiling or twisting heavy-lidded to look at Athos, and no matter what he was smiling, his whole body easy like something more than Athos was holding him up. 

Porthos was floating right there with them, Athos could tell. He'd never seen Porthos' face so open, so free of any worries beyond what was right there in front of him--when what was in front of him was everything he thought he'd never get to have. Porthos deserved this, this tender, awe-struck joy that lit up his face as he moved with Aramis. So much.

Athos had no idea how long they stayed like that. He never would. He would always lose time with them, in the best possible way.

It took Aramis curling in on himself with a soft gasp to make time something that mattered again. Athos steadied him, and Porthos reached up for his hand. "Aramis?"

The low rumble of Porthos' voice was enough to make him shiver again, and Aramis' eyes flickered up to Porthos' face. "I--" His voice was so rough he could barely speak, and he had to swallow before trying again. "I need to come, Porthos, you're so good and I don't want it to end, my whole body's just on fire and I can't--"

"I know," Porthos said, reaching up to cover his heart again. "I know, sweet thing, I'm there, too."

Aramis shuddered, letting out a grateful little groan, and let himself curl in a little more. He leaned heavy into Athos, humming at the touch, and reached down to steady himself on Porthos' chest. "Okay." He swallowed again, licked his lips. "Make me feel it, then?"

Porthos' smile was positively delicious, and he shifted Aramis gently in his lap, drawing his legs in a bit more and planting his feet. "You sure about that?"

Aramis nodded. "Yes," he breathed, and braced himself more fully on Porthos' shoulders. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, staring down at Porthos with glazed eyes. 

Porthos' grin widened as his eyes narrowed, and Athos shuddered in reflex at the heat, mischief, _need_ there. "Remember you said that."

His hand tightened on Aramis' hip, and he _slammed_ up into him. Aramis' whole body jolted, his head falling back, and a strangled yell broke free from his chest--and Porthos did it again, and again, his own chest heaving and drenched in sweat, until Aramis was writhing on him, shouting, begging _"fuck, yes, please, come on"_ \--fuck, he was beautiful, he was the most beautiful thing--

Porthos and Athos locked eyes, and their joined hands reached in unison for Aramis' dripping cock. They closed their hands around him together, _held_ and--

Aramis _howled_ and spasmed and came all over their hands. He jerked, his _cock_ jerked in their grip, and his body twisted and shook as Porthos fucked him through it, until he was breathless, boneless in his lap.

"Fuck," Porthos was gasping under his breath, his face tight as he stared up at Aramis, he was barely holding on-- "Fuck, oh, fuck, Aramis--"

"Porthos," Aramis slurred, dazed and fucked-out, and he _smiled_ \--

Porthos choked out a ragged sound and bucked up into him, and then all his muscles rippled and shivered and his mouth fell open in an _ah, ah, oh_ gasp for air.

Aramis whined and fell forward onto his forearms, resting his head against Porthos' chest, and Porthos moved shaky limbs to hold him. Athos knelt beside them, folded his body against them and his arms around them, and closed his eyes.

Porthos laughed, a ragged, unsteady little laugh. Aramis sighed happily, and Athos could hear Aramis' lips moving wet and sloppy over Porthos' chest.

"I love you," Porthos said, his cracking voice the only sound Athos needed to hear for the rest of his life. "Aramis, Athos, I love you."

Athos curled even closer, holding them as tight as he could, and Aramis sighed out again in blissful contentment. "Love, love, love," he murmured, sex-drunk and hazy with it, and Athos couldn't stop his little huff of fond laughter as he stroked Aramis' hair.

"Yes," he said, unable to hide the smile in his voice, and when he opened his eyes, Aramis was beaming at him. 

"No one else gets to hear that sound," Aramis said, reaching out to brush his fingertips over Athos' lips. "Just us." 

It was absurdly sappy, so saccharine it should have made him sick--but Athos just blushed, and nodded, and held them both tighter.

"You doin' okay?" Porthos asked, his voice still hoarse. "Athos?"

"Of course," Athos said, too content to be puzzled by the question. He was warm all over--buzzed, off the two of them, and every part of his body was heated, liquid, easy. 

"Do you want us to take care of you?" Aramis asked, his smile spreading slow and seductive.

It literally took Athos a minute to realize what Aramis meant. "Oh," he said finally, and directed his thoughts back inward with a faint puzzlement. He hadn't thought about his body in ages; he'd just let his hindbrain take over.

That had left him with that liquid heat in every part of his body--a literally _painful_ erection and a sudden need that slammed into him like a punch.

He shuddered, his startled sound of surprise and lust slipping free before he could stop it, and Aramis reached out to him with a heavy-lidded grin. "We've got you," he said, pulling Athos into a tender kiss, and Porthos' hand slid heavy and gentle into Athos' hair.

Athos couldn't even think of words; he just let them move him, pulled under so quickly by his own need that he felt like he was still floating. Porthos' hand cradled his head, Aramis had a hand on his hip, coaxing Athos to thrust against the curve of their bodies, and--Athos could be embarrassed by the way he was just rutting against them some other time. He didn't need anything else. He didn't _want_ anything else. 

When he came, he had his face buried in Porthos' shoulder, Aramis' face pressed to his neck, and he was held so closely against them that there was barely any air between their skin. 

He didn't have words. There weren't any. 

"Love you," Porthos whispered again, stroking his hair, and Athos nodded, pressed closer, and drifted. Safe. He felt so safe with them.

"Somebody," Aramis sighed, what could have been an age later, "should maybe get a washcloth."

"I can do it," Athos said sleepily, lifting his head. He was still a little hazy, but Porthos and Aramis were clinging to each other, tight as could be, and Athos didn't want to make them move. They couldn't let each other go yet.

"Thanks," Porthos said softly, kissing Athos as he climbed over them.

He snagged a washcloth from his dresser and eyed his empty water bottle. "Be right back," he said, and grabbed a pair of boxers off the floor, dragging them on. Porthos grinned at him, and Aramis shifted so he could see Athos, his lips curving in a soft, sweet little smile.

Those smiles kept him warm as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. As he ran the water, getting it hot, he caught a glimpse of his own stomach in the mirror. Streaks of come, finger marks on his hips--he let his eyes track up and there were scratches on his sides, bite marks on his chest; he traced the paths of the hickeys on his collarbones, his neck, the edges of his jaw. 

And he hadn't even been on the receiving end of much attention, this time--this was all from the past few days. Athos stared at himself, reached up and touched the most livid marks, purple-blotched and red-spotted on the sides of his neck, where they met his shoulders. Aramis liked nibbling there. The places on his chest, the broader-spaced marks there--Porthos' teeth, probably, and the marks on his hips... 

Athos brushed his thumb over them, remembering, and felt--and saw--himself flush.

It wasn't an embarrassed flush, though--not awkward, not ashamed. He felt like he _should_ be--fuck, it was brazen of him, to be standing here in the bathroom covered in sex marks and stroking them in memory--but he wasn't.

It felt good. It wasn't like any marks he'd had before, from Anne--where he'd look at them and shiver, feeling like he had to do something to get more before they faded, so he wouldn't be left unmarked. Alone. 

He knew he wasn't alone anymore.

Athos met his own gaze in the mirror, tracing the lines of his face. He seemed a little less haggard; his stubble needed trimming, but there weren't any circles under his eyes anymore. 

His eyes. Athos frowned at his reflection. Had his eyes always been this color? 

When was the last time he'd looked himself in the eye in the mirror?

His reflection started to blur around the edges, and Athos started, reaching down to adjust the steaming water. He doused the towel, squeezed it out, and headed back down the hall. When he opened the door to his room, he had to smile at what he found.  
"Thank you for kicking me out of bed completely unnecessarily," he said archly, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him.

"He was itchy," Porthos mumbled from where he was on his front, between Aramis' legs, _licking_ Aramis' stomach. "Didn't wanna wait."

"I'll take the washcloth, anyway," Aramis sighed, beaming up at Athos. His fingers were laced through Porthos' curls, stroking his skin, and he sighed out contentedly as Porthos mouthed at his hip. "You take such good care of us, Athos."

Athos smiled and settled down on the bed beside them. "I only can because," he said, smiling at him, "you take such good care of me."

Aramis' eyes widened, and his smiled turned incredulous and soft, and Athos leaned down to brush a kiss over his lips.

When he looked up, Porthos had his head resting on Aramis' thigh, and he reached up with a smile to take the washcloth from Athos' hand. 

Athos curled himself along Aramis' side, resting his head on the pillow next to Aramis'. He watched Porthos clean Aramis up, and he sighed, closing his eyes and smiling. He felt lazy, content...quiet.

His head was quiet. No echoing worries, nothing that he felt like he'd fucked up, no thoughts that maybe he was being too clingy or too close or too much.

He kissed Aramis' shoulder, reaching down and stroking his fingers over Porthos' wrist, humming tunelessly to himself.

As if in answer, the muffled sound of Aramis' phone sang out to break the silence. 

"Got it," Porthos said, pressing a kiss to Aramis' hip bone and leaning over the edge to fish Aramis' phone out from his discarded pants.

"You're so popular." Athos' lips curved against Aramis' skin, opening his eyes to trace his fingers over Aramis' ribs. His darling was so beloved. "More people checking on you?"

"Shouldn't be," Aramis said sleepily, thumbing his finger over the screen as he glanced at his phone--then jerked upright. "Oh, shit, it's my mom."

Unceremoniously he shoved Porthos' head out of his lap and grabbed his pajama pants from the side of the bed, as if his mother would somehow discern his state of undress from the opposite side of the country. "Sorry, sorry, love, but--"

Porthos laughed, rolling over to lie on his back between Athos' legs, and rested his head on Athos' hip instead. "I know, go ahead." Porthos never, ever told Aramis to call his mother back. Porthos always insisted they speak right then and there. They all knew why, but they never said a word about it. They understood.

Aramis grinned at them and picked up the call. _"Hola, mama--_ sorry, yeah, I know it's been a few days, I'm sorry, how are you?"

Athos ran his fingers through Porthos' hair and lay back in the pillows. Aramis sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, and he looked so different than he had a moment ago. Aramis' voice, eyes, his whole body, really, changed when he spoke to his mother. His eyes seemed brighter, wider; his voice a little lighter, his body less weighed down. Athos couldn't fathom having that kind of relationship with his own mother. It was always such a marvel for him to witness.

"I'm great, mama," Aramis said, his voice softening at the edges, and he reached over almost absently to lace his fingers with Porthos'. "Yeah--yeah, I was. But it's fine now, we talked, we..."

His slow, sweet smile spread across his face, and he glanced sideways at Porthos and Athos. "You were right."

The smile lasted just long enough for Athos to blush, to feel Porthos curve his head almost bashfully away, before Aramis' smile dropped and he rolled his eyes at the phone. "No--yes, I know you _always_ are, mama." Porthos burst out laughing, and Aramis swatted at him almost absently. "We--yeah. Yeah."

His smile crept over his face again, and from the faint flush in his cheeks, Athos could tell Aramis' mother knew exactly what was going on. "Yeah," Aramis said softly. "Yeah, _así es._ "

Athos could barely hold in his own laugh when Aramis winced and jerked the phone away to protect his ear from his mother's triumphant yell.

"Christ have mercy, mama," he sighed, still smiling, as he brought it back to his ear. Then he winced slightly, and Athos could clearly hear him being castigated for blasphemy. Still. It was lovingly meant, he was sure.

"We've just been hanging out," Aramis lied blithely, his cheeks turning pink but his voice steady. "It's been, what, two weeks? We're getting to know each other all over again. I made your rice and beans." It was a very smooth diversion from what they'd been doing--namely, each other--into food, and that steered them into safe waters for the next few minutes. 

Athos closed his eyes and rubbed his thumb back and forth along the nape of Porthos' neck, and Porthos turned his head into Athos' touch with a little sigh. It felt so close. It was so nice.

Aramis was trying to convince his mother that it was fine if he didn't cook for Thanksgiving. "Mama, I really don't want to have to go back to the grocery store, I think we're just going to eat downstairs for Thanksgiving," Aramis sighed, slouching over onto Porthos' side. "Ma-- _mira_ \--mama, you have no idea how hard it was to find epazote, and the people there were--" He hesitated, his eyes darting to Athos.

"Go ahead," Athos said, "they deserve it," and he felt Porthos' low rumble of remembered rage against his leg. 

Aramis hesitated a moment more, then plunged into furious Spanish. Athos loved it. He could barely pick out the words, even less so than when Aramis helped Porthos practice his Spanish, but the tone and emotion were clear enough. 

He kept picking up strange things, though. "What does he keep saying about strawberries?" he murmured to a sniggering Porthos. 

"I have no idea," Porthos said with a grin, turning his head to kiss Athos' palm. "They don't teach rude Mexican slang in class."

"I'm not being rude," Aramis said, breaking off his tirade, "if I wanted to be rude I'd be saying things my mother slaps me for, seriously, mama, _no tienes idea_ \--" And then he was off again, furious and indignant on Athos' behalf, and that made Athos happier than almost anything.

"He loves you so much," Porthos laughed, mouthing gently over Athos' palm. 

Athos smiled, brushing his fingertips over the curve of Porthos' chin. "I know the feeling."

Porthos looked up at him with wide, soft eyes and a shy smile, and it took Athos a good few seconds to realize exactly what he'd just managed to halfway admit. He blushed, deep and hot, but he held Porthos' eyes and nodded. He was getting there. Slowly, surely, he was getting to saying it out loud.

"Mama," Aramis said sharply, and they both turned to look at him. His eyes were just as soft as Porthos', bright with affection, and he barely tilted his head to the phone beside his ear. "I have to go, Athos just said something wonderful and I have to kiss him."

His quicksilver grin flashed at whatever she said to that, and he barely said goodbye and hung up before launching himself across the bed at Athos.

"You didn't have to hang up," Athos got out between the fierce, biting kisses Aramis pressed to his lips. "I'll still be here."

"I'll talk to her Thursday," Aramis growled, heat rising quickly in his eyes, and nudged at Porthos' shoulder until Porthos shifted from between Athos' legs, and Aramis could settle there instead. "Porthos, come up here and hold him down."

As Porthos held him close and Aramis treated him to just what, exactly, being deep-throated felt like, Athos left a reminder for himself in the deepest part of his brain-- _this is how it feels to be open. This is how happy it makes them, how happy it makes_ you.

Progress. Slow, but steady, progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me [on my tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very significant day and conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's been a month between updates, sorry! This chapter decided to jump itself ahead in the queue and knock over all my other dominos, and it took a little more fine-tuning and finagling than I'd expected to shift my plan. I'm very glad I did, though; it feels right to have it here. Many thanks to Nat, Polytropic, and Melly for the help, advice, beta-reads, and generally indispensable assistance with this chapter. 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for mentions of past emotionally abusive relationships and some self-recriminating anxious thoughts on Athos' part. Aramis also comes very close to having an anxiety attack, but makes it through unscathed.

Athos drifted awake to the gentle drag of fingertips over the nape of his neck. They circled, brushing the whorls of his hair, dipped to encircle the knob at the top of his spine--slow, soothing. The flat side of a thumb traced back and forth over the tense cord of his neck, the hollow behind his jaw, and Athos sighed out in pleasure. "Aramis?"

"Yes, darling," Aramis said, and Athos felt a kiss on his hair. As he surfaced slowly from sleep, he could feel Aramis' body pressed along his side, close and comfortable. He was half-on his stomach, buried in the sheets, and almost instantly realized he was much colder than he was getting used to being when he woke.

Athos yawned and arched his back slightly, popping a few vertebrae in the process. "Where's Porthos?"

"Shower." Aramis' fingers paused in their drag, then resumed. "He did a lot of work yesterday, after all."

Athos smiled at the memory. Yes, he had. "Thought you'd want to go with him," Athos murmured into the sheets. Out of all of them, Aramis relished their shared showers the most. He was already complaining about having to give them up when the rest of the floor came back.

Aramis' thumb tapped lightly against the bump of Athos' spine before he answered. "I didn't want to wake you." His voice was soft, heavier than it usually was so early in the morning.

Athos was still half-asleep, and his brain was always slower to wake than his heart. Without his brain getting in the way, Athos' heart knew instantly that Aramis wasn't all right.

He made a faint, discontented sound, and rolled over to press himself closer to Aramis. Aramis laughed softly, his hands settling on Athos' shoulders, but the sound wasn't as bright as his usual laugh. "He'll be right back, all warm and damp, you'll see."

"Not that," Athos mumbled into the pillow Aramis rested on. "You."

Aramis' faint _ah_ made him warm--and then a moment later, chilly, as Aramis' body curved almost imperceptibly away from Athos'. "I'm fine, darling," he said softly, and Athos finally opened his eyes.

Aramis' eyes were tight around the edges, a greyed shadow in what had been bright and brown all week, and Athos' heart thudded unpleasantly against his ribs. Had he slept through a fight? "Did--is everything--"

"Everything's fine," Aramis reassured him, threading his fingers into Athos' hair. It felt so good it very nearly distracted him. "We didn't fight, I just didn't feel like getting up."

Athos could understand that. He was rapidly coming awake, Aramis' clear unhappiness setting off warning bells in the anxious centers of his brain, and he nodded slowly. "Is there...anything I can do?"

Aramis stared at him, and some of the tightness in his eyes eased. "No," he said finally, and shifted so his and Athos' shoulders were pressed together. "Not right now, but I'll tell you."

Athos closed his eyes and rested his head on Aramis' shoulder, trying to ignore the churning of his stomach. Things had been going so well. He'd--well, he'd expected something to go wrong, of course he had, but not this soon. Not when they still had half the week left. Had he not been present enough yesterday, maybe, that Aramis had wanted to stay with him this morning--?

"I lied," Aramis said abruptly, cutting off the self-loathing trail of Athos' thoughts, and Athos' head jerked up. Aramis wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the sheets, and there was something melancholy in his face. "I lied, would you hold me?"

That, at least, was a no-brainer. "Of course," Athos said, pushing himself onto one elbow and pulling Aramis against his chest. Aramis eased down against him with a soft sigh, and Athos held him tightly and tried to ignore the worry growing in his chest. Aramis would tell him in his own time. All Athos had to do right now was hold him, and listen.

"I think yesterday stirred up some things," Aramis said against Athos' chest. He'd wrapped his arms around Athos' chest and held on tightly, and Athos could feel Aramis' fingers tracing restless patterns over his ribs. 

Athos nodded slowly. He was still half-asleep, and feeling decidedly out of his depth--he was really absolute shit at comforting people or figuring out unsaid things--but empathy for having one day's discomfort stir up something worse? That he was almost too good at. "I understand how it would," he said, settling into the pillows and tugging Aramis down with him. He would never get tired of the warm press of Aramis' body against him, feeling him breathe and shift, all his curves and planes. 

"Sorry," Aramis said, his voice sour with something Athos couldn't name, and it was so jarring against the tenderness in Athos' thoughts that for a moment he thought he'd missed something. "I'm sure dealing with your emotionally fucked boyfriend is exactly what you're looking forward to doing first thing in the morning from now on."

Athos probably wouldn't have asked the question he did next if he'd been more awake. He'd have had time to realize how sensitive an area he was brushing. But as it stood, he was still in a hazy headspace, and the bitterness in Aramis' tone echoed against the still-healing places in Athos' heart.

"Did he make you think that?" he asked, his palm flexing on Aramis' back.

He felt Aramis frown against his chest. "Who, Porthos?"

"Marsac."

A breath, then Aramis sat up sharply, twisting in Athos' arms so they could see each other's faces. "What?"

Athos was well aware of the mine he'd stepped on now--but Aramis' face wasn't giving anything away, so Athos decided to just be honest. "Did he make you think that easing you through a bad day was--a burden on him?"

Aramis' shoulders were hunched slightly, his back pulling away--withdrawing like he was afraid of a blow that was going to land--but at Athos' words, he seemed to untense a bit. 

"Anne did the same thing," Athos said then, surprising himself, and Aramis' eyes went wide. 

Huh, Athos thought. He'd never admitted that out loud before.

Well, since he was doing so well already-- "I'm sure our bad days are different," Athos said, pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking steadily at Aramis, "but I know that wasn't fair of her. And it wouldn't be fair of me to do it to you now." 

Aramis nodded slowly, his eyes still on Athos, and Athos reached out to brush Aramis' hair behind his ear. "I don't expect you to be happy all the time," he added. "I don't want you to have to fake it. If you're crabby or sick or just want to be quiet and be held all day--that's not a chore for me to deal with."

Aramis stared at him. The cagey flint in his eyes had softened entirely, and he looked very vulnerable in the faint light, filtering in around the edges of the shade.

"Are you sure?" Aramis said, almost wary.

Athos tilted his head at him. "Well. Do you feel like I'm a chore, on days when I'm such a pathetic excuse for a human I can barely able to get out of bed?"

Aramis' eyes blazed, his frightened wariness dropping away in the face of his anger about Athos' self-recrimination. "Of course I don't think you're a chore, don't talk about yourself that--"

And then it clicked, and he flushed slightly. 

"I wish it didn't come as such a shock," Athos said gently, drawing Aramis closer, "but I do, very much, feel the same way about you."

Aramis flushed deeper and let Athos pull him close. "It's not a shock," he said, burying his face in Athos' neck. "I know, Athos."

Athos stroked his hand over Aramis' back. "Well, then. If you need to talk, I'm very happy to listen. And if you don't want to, then I'm just happy to hold you, or let you go. Whatever you want."

"Do not ever," Aramis said against his skin, "let me go." His voice was very small, smaller than Athos had ever heard it, and Athos kissed his hair.

They both jumped at the sudden footsteps in the hall. Athos had put a protective arm around Aramis, shielding him close--before they realized, with the turn of the door handle, that it was just Porthos coming back.

He came in with his towel slung over his shoulders and his pajama pants low on his hips, and Athos' entire body felt like it floated up a little bit toward Porthos just at the sight of him.

"Good morning," he said, painfully aware of how eager he sounded, and Porthos beamed to see him awake.

"Hey, love," Porthos said, grinning down at him. "Missed you in the shower."

Athos flushed. "Did you really?" Why, after everything that they had done together, did _that_ make him hot all over?

Porthos laughed, going to the closet and rifling through it, undoubtedly for a shirt of his own that Athos had pilfered long ago. "I mean, I can't lie that it's nice to have a moment alone--y'know, we've been living in each other's pockets for half a week--but once I got over that, I was lonely."

Athos smiled helplessly up at him, and Aramis let out a little sigh against his skin. Slowly, like it was painful for him, Aramis sat up--and that sad, hollow look was back in his eyes again.

Porthos turned his head when he heard Aramis' little sound. Being Porthos, and knowing them so well, he read the situation instantly. His smile faded (Athos' heart mourned before he ruthlessly quashed it down), and he took a step closer to the bed. "Okay?"

Aramis nodded, ducking his head. 

Athos and Porthos shared a quick look over his head, and Porthos ventured, "Still feeling weird?"

Aramis nodded again, shifting out of Athos' arms, and Athos' heart stuttered anxiously beneath his ribs. 

"Yeah," Aramis said, sounding distant. "I think--I think I just need a change, would you two--"

He stopped and swallowed, and Athos knew the look on Aramis' face that meant his mind was racing. 

"Would you two come down to my room with me?" he asked finally, looking up. His face was still slightly wary, but his eyes were liquid. "I just want to grab a few things."

There was something in the way Aramis said the words that made Athos' heart pick up again. It was such a simple request, but Aramis had barely been able to get it out.

Athos and Porthos shared a look--half a second to convey a mutual _if it's really going to be that easy?_ \--and Porthos shrugged, tossing his towel over the edge of the bed and holding out a hand to Aramis. "Yeah, of course."

As they stepped into the hall, Aramis leading his way down the opposite end toward his room, Athos realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd been in Aramis' room. Barring, of course, that awful yet wonderful night before the fencing meet--and that had just been out of necessity, really. He hadn't looked around, he hadn't been invited, he'd essentially just tucked Aramis in and fallen asleep himself. He didn't go into Porthos' room, either, unless Porthos specifically dragged him into it. As a rule, Athos' room was the congregating place, and Porthos and Aramis would retreat to their rooms when they needed to.

It never seemed strange or out of place to Athos, that he never went into Aramis or Porthos' rooms. That was their space, their private place. Conversely, he never minded them in his room because his own bedroom didn't feel quite like _his_ space: a place for him and no one else. Athos didn't think he could stand to be in it, if it did. It reminded him too much of growing up in the creaking family townhouse, where nearly every room but his own was off-limits, and his bedroom had felt more like a cage than a safe haven.

Not now. Not now that he had them. Far from wanting his own space, he wanted the opposite. He wanted them close, always, making noise and being warm and reminding him that he wasn't alone or unwanted or an embarrassment anymore.

"I just need some clothes," Aramis said as he pushed the door open. He hesitated a second in the motion, looking like he was going to explain something--something was there, just on the tip of his tongue...and then he shook his head, his shoulders drooping, and led them inside. "Sorry about the mess. You know it was a rough two weeks."

Aramis' room looked so different in the daylight--though, admittedly, Athos hadn't paid the decor a lot of attention when he was half-carrying Aramis in a few days ago. This time, though, as he and Porthos lingered awkwardly near the door, he didn't think there was anything else he _could_ do but look. 

Aramis' backpack lay half-open on the floor, books and readings spilling out into the controlled (Athos assumed) chaos of his bedroom. Aramis tended to leave his clothes where they lay when he stripped them off, and his bedroom floor was scattered with small hills of fabric, the occasional graphic peeking out from the piles of t-shirts. Athos stared down at Marilyn Monroe's neon face for a long few moments before tearing his eyes away.

To the window ledge--no, the dresser--or maybe the top of his desk--was there no place safe for his eyes to rest, that didn't feel agonizingly intrusive? Athos hadn't realized Aramis even owned this much makeup and nail polish. Athos never saw him wear it--at least, not in the proportion Athos would expect, with this much of it scattered around his room. There were eyeliner pencils everywhere, tubes of lipstick in rainbow shades Athos had never seen him wear. More carefully than anything else, a set of neutral-colored powders and expensive-looking brushes was laid out on top of his dresser, in front of the mirror, and Athos remembered the way Aramis had reshaped his face with his makeup, at that pub night that felt like forever ago.

Aramis was digging through his closet at the far end of the room, flipping through t-shirts with a faraway look on his face, and Athos glanced over at Porthos. He wanted to see if Porthos had the same questions in his eyes--where did Aramis _wear_ all this, had he been hiding it?--but Porthos' attention was riveted to a set of posters on the walls.

Athos took a step closer and followed Porthos' rapt gaze to the small collection of pictures. They were in the place of honor on the wall beside the window--right where they'd be most visible to someone sitting on the bed--and Athos realized, slowly, that he'd seen them before. They were old pictures, but good quality; printed on good, glossy paper, carefully cut out.

He knew they were familiar, but couldn't place them, at first--then he looked at Porthos' face again, saw the tears shining in his wide eyes, and saw Porthos' lips form names. 

Athos glanced over at Aramis, but he wasn't looking in their direction. So he looked back at Porthos and cleared his throat. "That's--Stonewall, isn't it?"

Porthos nodded slowly. "Yeah, that picture's from a few years after the riots. And then that's, uh, Sylvia and Marsha," he said, pointing to the two pictures beside it. "Luisa knew them both. Talks about them all the time." His face shadowed. "I always wished I could've met them."

Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson. Athos knew them. Before deciding he was allowed to be bisexual in his first year of college, he'd done his homework--read up on almost every facet of the rights movement, learned about Stonewall and the history of people like him in the States--so he could know who he was, where he came from, and be able to prove to anyone who doubted his _"queer credentials"_ that he knew who else had fought so he could be as open as he was. It stemmed from his anxiety, he knew now, his paralytic fear of being found out as an "impostor"--but it had at least given him something useful.

Because he remembered, remembered as soon as he heard their names, Rivera and Johnson: two prominent leaders of the Stonewall Riots, two of the most visible drag queens and trans women of color that their community had in their history.

And Aramis had taken a picture of the two of them marching, and a picture of the two of them huddled an umbrella, and printed them out carefully on the nicest paper the library could offer, and tacked them up where he'd be able to see them from any place in his room.

Porthos looked at Athos, his eyes very wide, and Athos stared right back.

He glanced over his shoulder at the closet, where Aramis had paused in his search through his clothes.

Aramis stood, his hands clenched on a t-shirt--his jaw set, his face pale, and his eyes staring at nothing. 

And Athos realized--

Aramis was feeling them out. He'd invited them in, pretending like it wasn't important, and prayed that they'd notice what was, in fact, the most important thing. They were talking around it, because if it was incredibly important then the three of them were absolutely shit at addressing these things head on--and Porthos had said as much as he felt was right to say, given his support in that similar subtle, indirect way.

It was Athos' turn. 

He looked back at Porthos, at the pictures. "I know," he said slowly, trying to make these very important words both as clear and as nonchalant as possible, "that they were very brave women."

Porthos closed his eyes, relief clear on his face, and his hand slipped into Athos' and squeezed. 

Aramis let out a shuddering breath, and they both turned instantly to him.

He was still staring at his closet, his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed at nothing, but his face was flooded with color, instead of pale and sick with fear, and Athos' heart leapt. "Yeah," Aramis said, and his voice cracked. "Yeah, they were."

He turned towards them, took a step and let his legs give out. He collapsed to the edge of his bed, grabbing at the comforter, and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I..." His voice was strange, rough at the edges, but breathless, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I...want to tell you both something."

Athos and Porthos moved in unison--Porthos sat down beside Aramis on the bed, and Athos dropped to his knees at Aramis' feet, sitting back on his heels and taking Aramis' hands in his own.

Aramis smiled weakly at him, at Porthos, and he seemed--not _less_ anxious, or less paralytically terrified than he'd been when he'd told them he loved him, but nervous in a very different way. He'd been expecting them to leave him, then. 

Something about the way he sat, now, the hunch of his shoulders and the tremble in his hands, made Athos think Aramis was worried they would hurt him. 

Athos darted a glance up to Porthos, and Porthos saw his motion, saw the anxious pleading Athos knew was on his own face-- _Please do the talking because you know more about this and I will fuck it up_ \--and nodded. Porthos slipped his arm around Aramis' back--holding him up, not caging him in if he needed to move, and said quietly, "We love you. You can tell us anything."

Athos smiled his agreement, squeezing Aramis' hands once before relaxing his hold to something gentler, in case he wanted to pull away. 

Aramis nodded, a tiny, shivering gesture, and smiled weakly again. "I, um. I don't really know where to start."

"Anywhere you like," Athos said, looking steadily up at him. "We have plenty of time."

Aramis nodded again, his smile still weak and wan--and then it faded entirely, and he drew in on himself a little more. "Do you remember," he asked, his voice very quiet, "what Marsac called me on Halloween, that made me so upset?"

Athos and Porthos shared a very long look. They both remembered, very well, but neither of them wanted to say it. "Yeah," Porthos said finally. _"Princess."_

Aramis' barely-perceptible nod made Athos' heart ache. "It was a nickname," Aramis said. "Pet name, really. I used to love it."

He swallowed hard, turning his hands and lacing his fingers through Athos'. "And then I didn't, so much, because he started using it like a weapon. He'd call me that in public just enough to make me nervous, to worry about who might overhear." His hands tightened in Athos', and Athos squeezed back, silently conveying his empathy, what comfort he could give. He knew just how that could feel. 

"That was wrong of him," Porthos said, sitting as close to Aramis as he felt he could, Athos was sure, without making him feel trapped. "Babe, that was cruel of him, to use something you trusted him with like that."

Aramis nodded, another tiny little tremble of a motion that made Athos' chest hurt in painful memory. "I know that now," he said, still quiet. "I try to, at least. He--he held it over me, sometimes, that he wasn't going to out me or tell anyone, but--but I was never really sure, you know, when he used--what I'd told him, like that."

Athos nodded silently, tracing his thumbs over the sides of Aramis' hands. He and Porthos shared a look again, silently checking in with each other, that they were both still present, still all right. They were fine to do this, to be as gentle and kind as the last person he'd trusted _hadn't._

Aramis had stumbled over those last words-- _what I'd told him_ \--and Athos knew this was what they were leading up to. But Aramis seemed frozen, now that the words had passed his lips. He sat totally still between them, his eyes fixed on their joined hands and his back rigid under Porthos' arms, and he'd gone pale again.

"Aramis?" he prompted softly.

Aramis' face flushed again. He looked up, startled out of his reverie, and stared at Athos with wide eyes.

"Babe," Porthos asked, his voice just as soft, "is that...what you wanted to tell us? What you told him?"

Aramis sucked in a half-breath, shivering. "Yes," he said. His voice shook. "Yes, I--I do, but I'm really, really scared to."

Athos nodded, felt Porthos nod too, and squeezed Aramis' hands tighter. "That's all right," he said, trying to sound as convincing, as gentle, as possible. "Take your time."

"Whatever you want to tell us," Porthos said, his voice as steady and reassuring as Athos hoped his own was, "we're not gonna hold it against you. We're not gonna use it to manipulate you. We just want you to be happy, Aramis, we love you so much. And if you decide you don't want to, now, then that's fine, too."

Aramis nodded, smiling weakly. "I want to," he said, a little stronger. "Yesterday--kicked it up, with--with everything you said, Porthos, and now--now that I know..." He drew a deep breath and said in a rush, "And you two are good people and you pay attention to my feelings, so you'll know when I'm thinking about my--about this. And I want to be able to share it, I don't want to keep everything bottled up anymore, and I trust you two more than anything now, so-- So."

All that Athos could do in the wake of all that was smile--helplessly, and like a complete child, there were no words in his head, and when he looked over at Porthos, Porthos' whole face was soft with equally helpless love and affection. There was a fierce twist to Porthos' jaw, an almost-painful look of understanding, and determination to _care, protect, love_ in his eyes. Athos loved them both too much, he had no idea what his face was doing, it was probably disgustingly emotional-looking.

Aramis' smile was a little stronger as he leaned into Porthos more, and Athos squeezed his hands again.

Aramis took a few deep breaths, steadying, his eyes still on their joined hands.

Then he took one more and spoke. "He...he started calling me 'princess' when I told him that I..." He swallowed, gritted his teeth, his face twisted up in effort. "That I don't always...always feel like I'm..." 

Athos could feel Aramis' pulse racing under his fingertips, and he stroked his own thumbs over Aramis' in silent support.

Aramis closed his mouth, breathed, and tried again. "Like. Like I'm. Like I'm maybe only sometimes. Not always."

His voice failed again, and he closed his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut as he breathed through his gritted teeth. He shook his head slightly, his expression very close to overwhelmed.

"Not always...?" Porthos echoed, so soft and so very gentle.

Aramis breathed. And breathed.

And then he said it, his voice barely a whisper. "A boy?"

Oh.

Oh, Aramis, to keep that inside for so long.

As a lot of things clicked into place, Athos had the mental equivalent of a Hitchcock-zoom shot go off in his brain. So many things over the years that Aramis had tried to play off, bad days when he'd managed to never quite tell them what was wrong, days when he'd been defiantly out with something hidden behind his eyes--and his happier days, the endless parade of liquid eyeliner practice, the airy scarves he couldn't stop stroking when Porthos surprised him with them--

The way he'd _cried_ yesterday, oh, God, of course he did, when Porthos told them about Luisa and about the home he'd grown up in, knowing that Porthos loved someone who was like Aramis this way, of course Aramis had cried--

And above all, the one memory of how easy and relaxed and so much more _himself_ he'd seemed, looking up in the amber glow of the lamp outside the hall, that pub night when he'd softened his face a little with his makeup, reshaped it the way he'd wanted to.

Athos squeezed Aramis' hands tighter, and Aramis looked up at him, dark eyes wet with unshed tears. Athos smiled at him, his gaze unwavering and as loving as he could make it.

"You know," Porthos said, his voice steady and warm and a balm for all of them, "that we love you for who you are. Everything about you. Nothing 'in spite of,' nothing that we'd ever want you to hide. This is you, this is one more thing to love about you, and we love you."

Aramis closed his eyes and curled over onto himself, and Porthos shifted over, Athos pushed onto his knees, and they both held him as he started to sob.

"I'm happy," he gasped out between sobs. "I'm so relieved, I promise I am, I just apparently need to uncontrollably cry right now--"

"Catharsis," Athos said, cradling Aramis and resting his head against Porthos'. "It's a lot to let loose, all at once."

"Do not talk," Porthos said firmly. "Breathe and cry first. Talk after."

Aramis let out a ragged laugh between his sobs, and slowly, surely, got himself back under control. Athos and Porthos held him, neither of them making any move to pull away, until Aramis laughed again and lifted his head, reaching up for the both of them. "Okay. Okay, waterworks done."

He seemed lighter, so infinitely relieved, as they both sat back (as Athos climbed up onto the bed on his other side). The shadow in his eyes that had been there all day was gone, and the defensive set of his shoulders--Aramis was practically vibrating with the release of all the tension he'd been carrying.

"Thank you for telling us," Athos said, putting his arm back around Aramis. "Thank you for trusting us."

Aramis leaned into him, nuzzling into his shoulder. "Thank you for--thank you. I love you."

Athos kissed his hair in answer, thinking _I love you, too, I love you, I love you,_ as hard as he could, as Porthos murmured, "Love you, always" in return. 

"It's--I can't believe-- _fuck,_ I feel so much better," Aramis half-laughed, sounding a little wild, running a hand through his hair. "I don't--I only ever told Marsac, you know, because he wouldn't leave me alone when I didn't want to get dressed after gym one day. I haven't even told my mom. I haven't told _anyone._ "

"Thanks for telling us," Porthos echoed, taking his turn to kiss Aramis' hair. "So, is that why today was off? Not quite feeling _boy?_ "

Aramis shook his head, a weary smile on his face. "No. Yesterday kicked so much up, when you--what you told us, about your house, about your siblings and Luisa. In a good way," he added hastily, when Porthos looked stricken. "And then I woke up today and everything on the floor was just, boxers and jeans, and--" 

He sighed, looking down at his own chest. "I love my body. I haven't ever felt wrong in it, I feel really lucky for that--but days like this I just, I really want the outside stuff to all match, I want to be able to look down or look in a mirror and get to see the--the gender stuff reflected." He bit his lip, rubbing his palms restlessly over his thighs. "Does that make sense?"

Athos kissed his hair again. "Yes."

Aramis smiled gratefully at him. "So, I... When you both seemed so much like you wanted to help this morning, and Porthos, you'd..." He ducked his head shyly again, and Porthos kissed his temple softly. Aramis smiled, his eyes falling shut, and found his nerve once more. "You were so open, and--telling us everything about your house. You love Luisa so much, and Athos took that whole conversation so well, I thought." He sighed, his eyes far away. "I thought I could risk it, today. I was still so scared, but. I'm glad I did."

"Do you have words you want to use?" Porthos asked, calm and practical and as matter-of-fact as anything. Athos looked gratefully up at him, and Porthos nodded and smiled. Athos was more than glad to let him take the lead in talking about things like this; Porthos was the one who'd grown up in a home for queer and trans kids, after all. He had a better vocabulary, better understanding--Athos was only too grateful to keep his own mouth shut and learn first.

Aramis smiled, leaning closer and resting his cheek against Porthos' shoulder. "I'm still figuring it out, I think--I mean, I've tried _not_ to think about it for so long, I haven't really had time to explore it. I definitely do think--genderqueer, maybe more fluid, but." He took a deep breath--less in stress, this time, more thoughtful. "Demiboy felt close, when I learned what it was? Because I'm mostly a boy, I feel pretty sure, presenting slightly femme, and then other days swing from androgynous closer to female, with the potential to be kind of everything in between those points."

His eyes were so bright, alive with finally getting able to talk, to spill out what he'd clearly been dwelling on in his head for so long. "Anyway, no matter what, all the words and labels are mostly for--well, I don't know quite what fits yet? They help to contextualize things, but--this is just me and my own particular shit, and I wanted to tell you two so you know that I'm working through it, but I'm not sure I'll pick any words until I've gotten my head around it a little more."

Athos smiled at him, nudging his head against Aramis' shoulder. "And you said you hadn't been thinking about it."

Aramis laughed out loud, beaming at him. "Well. Not _every_ second of the day. But I'm definitely still feeling it out, deciding what's my gender and what's just my flashy, trashy aesthetic."

Porthos grinned and brushed a kiss over his temple. "And we will be there to let you cover us in glitter every step of the way." Aramis laughed, and Porthos nuzzled his hair a minute before settling Aramis more fully in his arms. "Pronouns?"

Aramis' eyes drifted shut in absolute contentment, a happy little smile playing on his lips as he relaxed back against Porthos. "Thank you for asking," he said, his fingers slipping out to lace through Athos' again. "He, him, his. For now. I reserve the right to change, of course, but they--they still feel. Right." He opened his eyes and smiled wryly at Athos. "And you're a native speaker of a gendered language, you know how it is."

Athos made an _ah_ sound and nodded. He hadn't even thought about that. Both French and Spanish were incredibly gendered languages; in most cases it just wasn't grammatically possible to refer to oneself without a gender. He tried to imagine how it would be, if he didn't feel that male pronouns quite fit anymore and wanted something neutral, to try to speak to his family, to have his whole language making it impossible.

He lifted Aramis' fingertips to his lips and kissed them. "I'm glad 'he' and 'him' still feel right, then."

"There are some options," Aramis said, as he turned his fingertips to stroke Athos' lips. "I mean, I did some desperate looking, and nonbinary Spanish is slowly happening, in the right circles in the right parts of the Internet. Probably not with my extended family, but I guess it's all right for now. The masculine endings still feel right, I--" He blushed, deeply, and looked down, letting Athos fold their hands back into his lap. "I still--I still want to hear my mom call me _mijo_ , and I don't know if I should, but--"

"There is no _should,_ " Porthos said firmly, hugging him. "You can want your mom to call you anything you want, and nobody gets to tell you shit about it."

Aramis twisted his head up to beam at him, and the growing confidence on his face made every part of Athos feel warm. "Yeah," Aramis said, settling back. "Yeah, you're right."

Porthos grinned at him. "Linguistic gender binary is a bridge to burn when we come to it, then." Athos inclined his head in a mock bow, and Aramis laughed aloud again.

He sighed happily, rolling his head back against Porthos' shoulder, and tugged Athos a little closer. He took a deep breath, let it out, and smiled up at the ceiling. "Thank you," he said, his voice softer. "Thank you both, really, for taking this so well."

"Please don't thank us just for being decent to you," Athos said, and gave into the temptation to kiss Aramis' fingertips again. Aramis smiled, spreading his fingers to stroke over Athos' stubble and cheeks, and Athos was glad to know that he had at least said one thing right today.

"Yeah," Porthos said, his smile curling briefly at Athos too. "Are there--is there anything more you want us to do? Like, day to day shit, what can we make easier for you?"

Aramis blinked. His eyes had gone all deep again, dark and liquid, and he looked up at Porthos with wide eyes. "Really?"

Porthos reached up and tucked Aramis' wild curls behind his ear, and Athos felt himself settle slightly as Aramis' tense back relaxed. "Yeah," Porthos said. "Any day, any time, just--tell us what you need."

"We'll make the change," Athos said, folding Aramis' hand in his own, and Aramis' eyes flashed to him. The soft, hesitant look of wonder there nearly made Athos forget what he was going to say, but he soldiered on. "Let us know how you feel, what kind of day it is, and we'll do anything you need us to."

Aramis looked back and forth between them both, taking them in. He nodded, his lips curving into a smile, and grinned down at the blanket. "And I thought you two wouldn't understand," he said softly.

Athos tilted his head, his throat tight. "I may not always," he admitted, and for some reason that just made Aramis' smile widen. "This is all sort of new to me. But I'll do everything I can."

Porthos grinned at him. Porthos was proud of him, Athos could see, glad he wasn't going to have to do all this for Aramis on his own--and he wouldn't, Athos could do it, too, and that just made everything better. Easier. "We'll do everything we can for you," Porthos agreed, and kissed Aramis' temple again. 

Aramis let out his breath--a long, heavy exhale, but it lightened at the end, and Athos hoped that Aramis felt lighter, too, when it was out.

"Thank you," he said, closing his eyes and smiling to himself. Then he looked up, grinned fiercely at the both of them, and nodded again.

Then he bounced up off the bed, hopping over to his closet. "Okay. So what I _wanted_ to wear today, when I woke up--"

And in a few moments he'd stripped off his borrowed boxers and t-shirt and was digging energetically through his closet. Eventually, he surfaced with a bright turquoise pair of hip-hugging briefs, black leggings to go over them, and a hugely oversized women's-cut t-shirt, nipped in just a bit at the hips and bearing an artsy charcoal portrait of the Little Mermaid. 

When Aramis turned to them, a nervous smile on his lips as he spread his hands, Athos was fairly certain both he and Porthos stopped breathing for a second.

Aramis looked so easy in his skin. Happy.

Athos and Porthos reached up in unison and dragged him back onto the bed.

Aramis crowed with laughter as they pulled him down into the sheets, kicking and squirming and laughing delightedly as they wrapped themselves around him and hugged him to within an inch of his life.

There was nothing that could ruin the day after that. The air seemed easier to breathe. Aramis was all smiles and eager conversation, drawing pictures in the air with his hands as he spilled out so many things that he'd been keeping back, and they spent the whole day talking about everything and nothing. Porthos decided at dinner that he needed to introduce Aramis and Luisa sooner rather than later, and as they sat in the dining hall they spun plans about going to visit, spending some time in New York City, maybe at New Year's...

"We're doing fencing camp again in January, yeah?" Porthos asked Athos, leaning over the table to spear the last piece of beef on Athos' plate.

Athos whacked Porthos' fork away with his own and grabbed it himself. "Yeah, two week session before spring semester starts." He felt his ears heat. "I should send those emails, shouldn't I?"

Aramis grinned at him over the rim of his glass. "Possibly."

"So if that's, what, the fifth like last year..." Porthos drummed his fingertips on the table, his eyes faraway. "If we go to New York for New Year's, we could stay a few days. It'll be after Christmas, the house usually empties out by then."

Aramis beamed at Porthos, and the two of them were smiling so widely at each other it made Athos' chest ache. "I'd really like that," Aramis said, his cheeks flushed with excitement and his eyes bright.

Porthos ducked his head, smiling almost shyly. "Yeah, I think you'd like it there," he said, pushing his food around on his plate. "I think--some of the kids, they'd really like you, too."

Aramis beamed at him. "God, we're disgusting, aren't we? Yes, Porthos, I cannot wait to meet your family."

Porthos blushed, grinned, and Aramis reached over to squeeze his hand. "New Year's, then, yeah."

They both looked at Athos, then, their faces so excited and happy, and Athos opened his mouth, then closed it. He could feel himself flushing, could feel the nervous lump solidifying in his throat. 

They hadn't talked about winter break all semester. Aramis had known for months he couldn't afford to fly all the way home and was probably going to stay on campus, Porthos hadn't been sure if he was going to go back to Luisa's or stay, and Athos--

Athos had assumed he'd go suffer through Christmas at home, hating every single second and doing his best not to backslide into terrible depression, and come back as soon as possible. Just like every other year.

But--maybe he didn't have to, now.

He felt Aramis' leg curl around his own under the table, and he jolted, looking wildly up like he'd been caught out at something. "Sorry?"

Porthos and Aramis shared a look, and no, that was nervous, that was apprehensive, that was not what Athos had meant to-- He half-lunged across the table, reaching for Porthos' free hand, and blurted out, "No, I want to, I'd absolutely love to, if you want me there."

Porthos' tension eased--he nearly laughed, pressing Athos' arm gently down until he was sitting back down. "Okay," Porthos said, smiling faintly. "So if you're not freaking out about getting dragged to Manhattan--?"

Athos settled back and forced himself to breathe. "Have we talked about Christmas?"

Aramis and Porthos blinked.

Oh, good, he wasn't just insane. They actually hadn't talked about it.

"Oh, fuck," Aramis half-laughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

Porthos mock-groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, we should probably talk about that."

Athos nodded, settling into his chair and wondering why his heart was racing in panic suddenly. _Calm down,_ he ordered himself savagely, and took a drink of water.

"All right," Porthos said slowly, rubbing one hand over his stubble. "I'm just gonna say this." He sighed and looked down at the table, almost shy. "I...would really want to spend Christmas with you two this year," he said, his normally bold voice a lot quieter. "Don't care if it's here, or in New York or California or wherever. I just really want to be with you both."

Aramis and Athos looked at each other, and Athos was fairly sure the look of utter, enchanted adoration on Aramis' face was mirrored in his own.

"You don't have to be shy about that," Athos said, reaching over for Porthos' hand again. Porthos looked up sharply, his cheeks tinted dark, and Athos smiled at him as well as he could.

Porthos grinned nervously between them. "Really?"

Aramis laughed and stretched over to cover their hands with his. "Yes, really, Porthos, in what fucking universe would you think we wouldn't want to hear that?"

Porthos' tension eased almost immediately, and he turned his hand palm-up to wrap his fingers around them both. "I don't know, I just wanted to--check, I guess--this is really fucking nerve-wracking, okay, I don't know what the shit I'm doing."

"Yes," Athos agreed, loving him more in that second than he ever possibly had. "Which brings me to--well." They both looked at him, and Athos' anxiety spiked again. He felt so incredibly selfish for saying this, but he didn't know what else to-- Porthos squeezed his hand gently, prompting, and Athos remembered to breathe. 

"I want to spend the holidays with you both more than anything," he said, staring at their joined hands. It was easier than seeing their faces, than seeing the disappointment he knew would be there. "And I know it would be the easiest option, but."

_Breathe. Breathe. They're not going to be angry. They might be disappointed, but they won't be angry._

"I can't invite you both home for Christmas," he blurted out. "I'm sorry, I know it's here, it's close, it'd be easiest, but I--I _cannot_ go back there, even with you both there to back me up, I can't spend two weeks there and not go fucking insane again, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

There was just enough of a silence for his heart to fully stop beating.

"Of course not," Aramis said slowly, sounding--confused? "Athos, we weren't going to expect you to do that."

He looked up, frowning, and saw them both giving him strange looks. "No?"

Porthos shook his head, a faint, puzzled smile on his face. "No," he said, like he was reminding Athos-- "You hate it there."

"I'm honestly more worried that you seemed to think we were going to be angry," Aramis said, tilting his head at Athos. "You realize we'd never ask you to go back to a place that was awful for you just because it's--most convenient?"

Athos blinked at them. Started to say something, then stopped. 

"Well," he said, well aware of how pathetic he sounded, "everyone always has before, so."

Porthos growled low in his chest and squeezed Athos' hand. "Not us. Okay?"

"For fuck's sake," Aramis added, sounding offended at the very thought, and Athos had to smile. 

"There," Porthos said, smiling at him, and it would never cease to amaze Athos, the way the two of them could be so _generous_ , the way they never demanded anything from him but honesty and respect, and trusted that love would follow. 

"Thank you," he said, his throat tight, and he managed to smile a little wider. "I suppose--I can talk to Treville about us staying on campus for Christmas, they usually keep one of the halls open for the international students."

"That sounds good," Aramis agreed, tracing his fingertips over the back of Athos' hand. He looked nervous, suddenly, and his eyes darted carefully up to Athos. "Do you--want to talk about why it made you so anxious, or...?"

Athos' chest closed up, and Aramis instantly shook his head, seeing it on Athos' face. "Never mind, sorry--"

"Not today," Athos said, forcing his smile back up. "Thank you for asking, really. It--it matters, that you care." That was true. That was so very very true. But _not today--_ , no, not today, not fucking ever, no. "I'd--just rather not talk about me today."

Even as he said it, and as the two of them smiled and nodded, though, he felt his stomach drop. He didn't want to talk about himself. He never wanted to talk about himself. Both Porthos and Aramis had opened up so much over the past few days, shared so much of themselves, things they'd never told anyone else, and--

And he wasn't. He was holding back so much from them, and it made him sick to his stomach. 

They weren't going to rush him, they weren't going to force him. 

They deserved better.

"Babe?" 

He looked up at Porthos, caught out, and saw Porthos' dark eyes curious on him. Gentle, not probing, just--concerned.

Athos felt his mouth smile, even if his eyes didn't. "Sorry. Thinking."

"It's okay," Porthos said, and smiled--a real one, that went all the way up to his eyes. So much affection. So much care. And Athos still didn't feel like he deserved it, but--

But maybe.

"Can we go back upstairs?" Athos asked, surprising himself. 

Aramis' smile spread slow, and Athos' stomach shivered. "Back upstairs?" Aramis asked, setting his fork down with a purposeful, casual air. "Or back to bed?"

Athos had only meant back upstairs. But the sudden promise of--getting caught up, getting to do something for them, not having to _think_ \--

"Bed," he said, looking swiftly to Porthos for confirmation, and Porthos grinned.

Athos set his fork down, his hands trembling, and then-- They must have put their dishes back, must have walked to the elevator, but he was in a haze. He only knew the touch of Porthos' hand on his back, Aramis' fingertips dragging him on. And then time blurred, and Athos was kissing Porthos in the elevator, Aramis' hips rolling against his ass and breath hot on his neck, and then they were kissing in the hallway, against the door--

Back in bed, thank God, back in bed and everything was all right, safe, the world distant and meaningless again. They were all that mattered, the three of them, and Athos rolled onto his back as Porthos shoved him gently over, Aramis practically purring against his other side.

"What do you want?" Athos asked, tugging Aramis over into his lap. He didn't want to think. He didn't want this to be about him, he wanted to do something for someone else. And he had a feeling they got that, because Aramis and Porthos shared small smiles, the most fractional nods, and Aramis arched his back with a happy sigh. 

"Well." Aramis smiled lazily, stretching his legs out down along Athos' and laying over him. Porthos rolled onto his side to face them, shamelessly sliding one hand down Aramis' spine, and Aramis hummed, arching up into the touch. "See," he said, looking down at Athos through his lashes, "what I want right now is to keep feeling as loved, and admired, and _wanted_ as you made me feel this morning."

"I bet you do," Porthos murmured, and with a soft sound Aramis turned his head to catch Porthos in a deep, sucking kiss. Athos watched, trying not to feel as _hungry_ for it as he did--they were so close to him, he could see every little movement of their lips, their tongues. They just shattered his control, both of them.

"And I'd also bet," Porthos said, when they pulled apart, and _oh,_ Athos and Aramis both shuddered at the timbre of his voice, "that you've got some ideas of how you'd like us to be admiring you. Because I _know_ you."

Aramis laughed, his eyes hot and his smile wicked, and he dropped his eyes for a moment--summoning his courage, Athos could see, in the way his teeth worried at his bottom lip for a moment.

Then Aramis looked back up at them, his eyelashes dark and heavy, and his smile curved up even higher. "I want to give you both a lap dance."

Porthos' jaw dropped. 

Athos could not breathe for sheer lust.

 _"Jesus,"_ Porthos groaned, and surged forward to drag Aramis into another desperate, messy kiss.

Athos pushed up onto his elbows, kissing the tender spots on Aramis' neck (he knew those now, he couldn't believe that he knew those now), and Aramis sighed against Porthos' lips. twisting to press himself into Athos more. "I'm guessing," Aramis panted, when Porthos finally let him up, "that's a yes?"

Athos slid a hand into Aramis' hair and pulled his head around for a kiss of his own. He was _starving_ for this, suddenly, amazed by the idea that Aramis wanted to do this--that Athos had spent three years aching for this, watching Aramis be all over everyone else, and now Aramis wanted to do this just for them. 

"Please," he said, when he had to let Aramis go to breathe. "If you want to. Please."

Aramis grinned at him and brushed the tip of his nose along the bridge of Athos'. "I do," he said, and the simple, honest desire in his voice nearly made Athos melt.

"And we do, too," Porthos said, and kissed his hair--rested his head against Aramis' hair, closed his eyes and breathed him in.

"Porthos," Aramis murmured, tracing his lips over Athos', "turn on some music." 

Porthos half-rolled over to scoop Aramis' phone up from the side of the bed, obeying instantly. "Requests?"

"Anything." 

Porthos thumbed through Aramis' music for a moment, then stretched over to Athos' speakers on his desk. He settled himself back down beside Athos as the music started, and even Athos knew "Drunk in Love" from the beginning. (He mostly knew it because Aramis had been so ecstatic when the album dropped out of nowhere that they hadn't listened to anything else for weeks, but still.)

Aramis sighed happily, and Athos wound his fingers tighter through Aramis' hair as Aramis' hips began to move, hypnotic and slow against Athos' own. "You know me too well," Aramis murmured, looking up at Porthos through his lashes.

"Everyone on this campus knows you love Beyonce," Athos said, his other hand splayed on Aramis' back, just holding him as he moved. It felt impossibly good. He'd spent years watching Aramis dance all over other people, and now Aramis had chosen him.

Aramis smiled and kissed Athos again, his hips rolling in a steady circle. Athos bit off a groan as he lay back against Porthos, and Aramis pulled back slightly, sliding his hands down Athos' body. The heavy bass thrummed through the room, and Aramis sang softly along. _"Why can't I keep my fingers off it, baby, I want you..."_

Athos couldn't stop touching him, smoothing his hands over Aramis' thighs, the fabric of his leggings soft under Athos' palms as Aramis lifted up onto his knees just enough that he could move more. 

Porthos let out a soft, heavy breath as Aramis ground slowly against Athos to the beat. Aramis let his head tip back, his eyes falling shut as he sang quietly along, and he was ungodly beautiful in the dim light of Athos' room. He was in his element--the center of attention, wanted and adored, giving his whole body to them. He didn't look like he was anxious or worried about what they thought; all his hesitation from the morning was gone. He looked comfortable in his skin, and Athos was so happy for him.

"Beautiful," Porthos said softly, his voice thick, and Athos nodded his agreement.

Aramis opened his eyes to smile at Porthos, and smoothly he shifted his weight, swinging a knee over Athos' until he was straddling one of Athos' legs and one of Porthos', so he could move against the both of them. He leaned forward, bracing himself on Porthos' chest so he could bend down and kiss him. _"Drunk in love, I want you,"_ he sang along, against Porthos' lips, his hips rocking against their thighs.

And he did, Athos could feel it, but there was no hurry. There was something in Aramis' motions, the lazy way he rolled his hips against him and the way his head fell slowly from side to side as he danced for them... He looked like he was in a dream, smiling as he sang. 

He looked at them with heavy-lidded eyes as the beat picked up, and he grinned to see whatever was on their faces. _"Drunk in love,"_ he sang along, his smile wide, and he leaned in just to kiss them and then slide back, making sure to touch as much of their bodies as he could. 

Aramis knew every single word of the verses, and had since the day the album came out--they'd heard him sing this song a thousand times, but he'd never sung it _to_ them before, giving them (as promised) the best lap dance of their lives. Athos wasn't sure if _he_ was dreaming, because it was too perfect to really be real--Aramis laughing and smiling as he rocked and swayed over them, crossing himself like in the music video and blushing a little as their hands roamed over what parts of him they could touch. 

Athos had to lay back and smile as Aramis climbed fully onto Porthos just for the _surfboard_ bit, and Porthos laughed and pushed his hips up playfully as Aramis ground down on him, swinging his hips as sinfully as any pop star.

That was the best part--they could still laugh and joke with each other, even with heat in their eyes and intent in their touches. It wasn't a game, this thing they were steadily building between each other, but they didn't have to treat it like life or death, either. 

Which was great, because this teasing and mind-blowingly sexy lap dance was rapidly climbing Athos' list of _absolute favorite memories, ever, bar none._

 _"We woke up in the kitchen saying 'how the hell did this shit happen,'"_ Aramis sang along, his eyes sparkling, and Athos shook his head in despair--that had _actually_ happened, they were _disgusting,_ and Porthos laughed out loud. Drunk in love was right.

"I really hate Jay-Z's verse in this song, so I'm not singing along," Aramis said conversationally, dropping out of character as the offending verse started. He still danced, though, not missing a beat, and he dipped low and slid painfully slowly against them. "This is doing something for you both, isn't it?"

"Fuck, yes," Porthos said for both of them, "are you serious?"

Aramis grinned, his eyes so warm and loving that Athos almost needed to pinch himself. There was no way Aramis could really be here, doing this, smiling at them like this. "Oh, good," Aramis said, leaning back into an excruciatingly graceful backbend.

"You're gonna get fucked at the end of this song," Porthos told him, his voice just as conversational. Aramis shivered deliciously against them and rolled back upright. His hair fell in his eyes, and he gave Porthos a scorching look of want. His hand slid up and down Athos' chest as he and Porthos stared at each other, and Athos traced his fingers over the back of Aramis' hand, keeping himself grounded to them, part of them.

 _"We be all night,"_ Aramis murmured along as the bridge came back in, _"love..."_

Porthos reached up for him, and Aramis turned his face into Porthos' hand as it cupped his cheek. Aramis' eyelashes fluttered dark against his cheeks, and he ground down, slow and hard against them. 

_Love, love..._

Athos lost track of how many times the album played through before they finally wore themselves out.

Curled against Aramis' side, he watched sleepily as Porthos walked his fingertips across Aramis' kiss-covered collarbone.

Aramis cracked open an eye, stretching luxuriously and turning towards him. He still nodded his head faintly to the music, and Athos tapped out the rhythm against Aramis' hipbone--which already bore faint fingerprint marks, against all the other marks from their week.

Before this week, Athos never would have thought it was possible to fuck for four days straight and still feel like it wasn't enough. Would they ever get enough of this? They'd had each other so many ways, all over the dorm, and he still craved _more._

"Can I help you?" Aramis asked, smiling dazedly up at Porthos. Aramis' whole body was slack, every inch of him relaxed and well-fucked, and Porthos smiled, just brushing his lips in the lightest caress.

"Just curious," Porthos said, flattening his hand against Aramis' sternum. He smoothed his thumb over the base of Aramis' clavicle, and Aramis sighed in pleasure. "How long, approximately, have you wanted to give someone a lap dance to that song?"

Aramis laughed, and he let his head fall back onto the pillow. "Since the first time I heard it. Also, Athos, my arms aren't working, hit him with a pillow for me."

"Can't, not working either," Athos sighed, fitting his body against Aramis' back. "I'll get him in the morning."

"Noted," Aramis yawned, and pulled Porthos closer. 

Athos nestled his face in the crook of Aramis' neck, reaching for Porthos over him, and let out his breath in a long, easy sigh. Perfect. This was perfect.

"Is it after midnight?" Porthos said drowsily.

Athos craned his neck to see his desk clock. "After one." As he settled down, he could see Porthos' smile in the dark. "What?"

Porthos' voice was quiet, private. "Happy Thanksgiving."

Athos' heart clenched, and warmth flooded him all the way down to his toes.

"I'm thankful for this," Porthos murmured, his arms encircling Athos and Aramis both, holding them close. "For you both."

"Me, too," Aramis said. His heart shivered in his voice, and Athos kissed the back of his neck.

"And me," he whispered. It was all he could say, but it was enough.

He didn't fall asleep for a while, but there was nothing lonely or painful about lying there listening to the two of them breathe.

He was under no illusions that he was anything but lucky to have them both. To have them both in his bed, telling him that they were thankful for what the three of them had. That they stayed, even though he couldn't give back what they needed--what they deserved.

He licked his lips and tested the way the words felt in his mouth. _I love you,_ he mouthed silently, tasting the vowels, practicing the shape of his lips. _I'll tell you someday. I love you._

Soon. He hoped he could, soon.

He hoped they could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is emotionally very dear to me, and I hope you all enjoyed it. I tried my very best to do it justice. If you're curious about Aramis' pictures, they are [this](http://i.imgur.com/FIAPqwZ.png) [and this](http://i.imgur.com/ZGsd1Dn.jpg) (although Aramis undoubtedly found a better quality version of that one). As always, if you need me, [I'm here.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving morning--like Christmas morning, only the gifts are family phone calls and complicated emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real world begins to intrude again. Thank you, everyone, for lovely comments and support; you are literally the wind beneath my wings and the reason I keep going. Someday I may actually be able to respond to comments, who even KNOWS.
> 
> WARNINGS IN THIS CHAPTER: Mentions of past drug use, negligent and outright cruel parenting of a mentally ill child, and a vivid but brief mention of a past suicidal episode.

The soft buzz of a phone pulled Athos into consciousness. Bright light edged in at the corners of the shade, brighter than it should be for--he checked the desk clock--ten-ish. Maybe it had snowed. 

The phone--Aramis', he could tell now--still buzzed quietly on the desk. Aramis slept dead to the world between him and a similarly-out-cold Porthos, and Athos supposed that meant _he_ was supposed to get it. 

He pushed himself upright and stretched over Aramis and Porthos to the desk. Aramis' phone was buzzing next to the speakers where they'd left it, and _HOME - MAMA_ lit up the screen. 

Oh.

Athos picked it up and weighed the phone in his hand. He was still a little out of it, his brain numbed by sleep, and for once his anxiety centers seemed curiously calm. 

He swiped the screen and lifted it to his ear. "Good morning, Mrs. Herrera," he said, just loud enough to be heard. "Aramis is still asleep, this is Athos."

_"Oh, good morning, Athos,"_ she said, sounding pleasantly surprised enough. _"I know it's early. I thought I'd call before we start cooking here."_

"Is everyone coming to you today?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to remember what Aramis had told him about his family's Thanksgiving dinners before. He did remember that they didn't actually celebrate the holiday, as it were--half of Aramis' Mexican family was indigenous and had been decimated by colonization, and Aramis tended to scoff loudly at anything involving Pilgrims or turkeys--but took the opportunity of a national day off to get together, anyway.

_"Almost everyone!"_ It was such a revelation to Athos, to hear people actually excited about seeing their family. _"My sisters, my two brothers--all their partners and kids, except two in college, so that's nearly twenty there. And my cousin Felicia just moved here, so she'll bring her boyfriend and their baby--and a few of my friends from church, I told them we'd have plenty of food."_

Athos' heart thumped hard against his chest at the thought of how loud, crowded--loving--that house would be. "Sounds nice," he agreed softly. "I think we're just going to eat in the dining hall--whenever Aramis and Porthos get up, of course." She laughed, and he warmed all over at how easy it was to talk to someone who wanted to hear about it. "We've slept late this week, since we can get away with it."

She clicked her tongue, mock-scolding (at least, he hoped it was a joke). _"Are you keeping my baby up late, Athos?"_

Athos flushed to the roots of his hair, but he didn't once consider lying. "Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry. It was his idea, though."

_"Oh, of course."_ She sounded amused, though, and Athos' nerves stayed calm and steady. _"And of course you're being safe."_ That part was not a question.

Athos' freshly-woken brain needed an extra second for that, and then he blushed horribly again. "Yes, ma'am," he said helplessly. His traitorous eyes flickered to the mess of empty condom packets on the side of the bed, and God, was there no blood left in his body that was not in his face?

_"Professional responsibility."_ Of course. Aramis' mother worked at a church in West Hollywood, running the social programs; HIV prevention was a big part of it. _"I know you'd never want to hurt each other."_

"No, ma'am," he agreed. "We're being very careful about that in--in a lot of ways."

_"I know I can trust you and Porthos with my baby,"_ she said, her voice softening. _"He's never had anything but love to say about you both."_

The lump in Athos' throat was a solid, painful thing, and he couldn't speak around it for a moment. "Mrs. Herrera, I--"

_"Catalina, Athos."_

He swallowed, hard. No adult had ever told him to do that before. "Catalina," he agreed, though the words sounded bare in his mouth without any honorific. "I have--I promise--I've always felt the same way. I would cut off my arm before I hurt him."

_"Ah, you're a sweet boy. That's what a good mom likes to hear."_ She laughed softly, the sound so much like Aramis'. _"So how are you, then? I know he can be a handful, is he pushing you too fast?"_

Athos ducked his head, smiling down at Aramis and Porthos, curled together in sleep. "No, m--Catalina. No, he...he's very patient. Understanding."

She hummed softly, a knowing and sympathetic little sound. 

The kind of sound a caring mother would make, hearing something like that.

Everything in Athos' chest cracked open. 

"I feel like I'm not giving enough back," he said in a rush, the words stumbling out and pouring over his tongue like floodwaters. It surprised him--shocked him, really, that this dynamite blast had brought the whole thing down so quickly--but stopping was not an option. "He and Porthos have both shared so much with me, they've been so honest, but I don't know how to do that, not at all." His voice shook. "I never learned. I'm not even capable of it, Catalina."

_"Now that, I know, is wrong,"_ she said, her voice crisp, and Athos' mouth snapped shut. Well, now he knew where Aramis' quick call on bullshit came from. _"Aramis told me about your family, and I'm sorry they're so cold. But of course you can be different."_

"I never have been before." He stared down at Porthos and Aramis, both still fast asleep, and the wreck of his heart caved in on itself. What was he even doing with them? "They deserve so much more."

She snorted. _"More than the love of their lives? You try explaining that to them, see how they take it."_ She sighed and said something under her breath, probably in a language he didn't speak, but Athos didn't really hear. His head was swimming with what she'd already said. 

He protested automatically. "I'm--I'm not--" Not good enough, not worthy enough, not whole and unafraid and giving enough. "I don't know how I could be..."

She let him fumble through his denials until he fell silent. Aramis had learned his patience from this gentle silence, Athos was sure.

The two of them being in love with him was not the frightening part. He could, with some mental gymnastics, understand that they cared about him, specifically, and that their affection was unshakable. 

Him not being able to bear up the burden of their feelings, not treating them with as much care as their most precious parts deserved, not being able to give them what they needed--the seeming inevitability of that was what panicked him.

When she spoke again, her irritation was gone, replaced by the simple compassion that Aramis had always said was his favorite thing about his mother. _"Has your anxiety been worse?"_

Athos breathed. Swallowed. Made sure Aramis and Porthos were both still peacefully asleep. "Before this week, yes," he admitted quietly. "It's so good to have them both, but I worry I won't be able to keep up."

_"And talking to them's out of the question?"_

He stared at the scar over Porthos' eye, barely visible in the shaded light; at the swoop of Aramis' brow, smooth and unworried in sleep. 

"I need to leave the past in the past," he said, his voice nearly inaudible.

_"I understand."_ She blew out her breath in a crackle of static. _"It's not good for you to keep all this inside, though--you know that, right?"_

He nodded numbly, then remembered of course she couldn't see. "I--yes, I do."

_"I know it's scary to try to find a real doctor,"_ she said, as gentle as could be, _"so if you ever need to call me, I'm happy to talk."_

His throat closed up for a wholly different reason than his nerves. 

His own mother had never, ever said that. He hadn't spoken to his father in years. Sophie worked too hard for him to feel all right calling just to _talk._

_"Athos?"_

Fuck, how long had he just been sitting there in stunned silence-- "Thank you, Catalina," he said, his voice scratchy and raw. "I may."

_"You and Porthos might as well be my sons--especially now."_ She laughed again, clear and sharp like Aramis. Athos' chest ached, his heart pulling hard toward the sound. _"I always want to hear how you're doing. You remember that."_

"Yes, ma'am," he said, hoping she could read his churning emotions in the tightness of his voice. He wanted a mother like this, he wanted someone who cared enough to ask, who would treat his worries with concern and understanding instead of a heavy sigh and a flip of the hand.

_We've already made the guest list,_ his mother's voice echoed in his head, jarring harsh and out of tune against Catalina's kindness.

Fuck, he was going to cry. He sniffed--too much, fuck, that was loud--and yes, of course, Aramis stirred against his leg.

"I think my pathetic weeping just woke up your child," he said softly into the phone, and Catalina laughed again. 

Aramis' brow creased. "Mama?" he slurred, lifting his head like a blind kitten toward the sound. 

"Yes, I'm talking to your mother," Athos told him, reaching out to run his fingers through Aramis' hair.

Aramis purred, turning his face into Athos' hand, and blinked his eyes open. When he saw Athos on the phone, his sleepy smile widened. 

"I'll put him on, Catalina," Athos said into the phone, and blushed when Aramis smiled in pleased surprise at the first-name terms. "And--thank you. Really."

_"Any time, Athos. Take care of my angel, yeah?"_

"Of course," he said, and passed the phone over.

Aramis blew a kiss to Athos as he took the phone. "Hi, mama," he yawned, rolling over onto his back. "I miss you. Did you make my boyfriend cry?"

"Only a little," Athos said, and lay back down. He rested his head on Aramis' chest, smiling when Porthos shifted over to do the same in his sleep, and closed his eyes.

The rise and fall of Aramis' voice soothed him better than any music or quiet room ever had. He couldn't hear all Catalina's answers, but Aramis' quiet, steady questions were enough. Which aunt was coming, whether or not a certain cousin had graduated yet, what Catalina and her brothers and sisters were going to cook.

"I hope Tio George makes those good cookies," Aramis said, his fingers running soothingly through Athos' hair. "Send me some if he does."

"I wan' a cookie, too," Porthos mumbled against Athos' cheek, and Athos huffed an almost laugh, turning to look at him. Porthos' eyes were still shut, but one side of his lips was twitching up in a smile. Athos kissed it.

Porthos hummed and kissed him back, lips soft and slack with sleep, and Athos felt his equilibrium returning. He only felt a tiny pang of undeserving, self-loathing guilt when Porthos opened his eyes and smiled at him, so he considered that a win. 

"Porthos wants a cookie, too," Aramis told his mother, his own smile clear in his voice. A pause, then he laughed. "Yeah, here." He held the phone away from his ear and tapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Mom wants to get your order in person."

Porthos flushed and took the phone, propping himself up on one elbow. "Hi, Mama Herrera," he yawned. "I was just kidding, y'know."

Athos felt a little guilty that they kept cutting into Aramis' phone time with his mother. He threw a guarded glance at Aramis, worried that he'd see signs of irritation there--it had to be a tiresome thing, having your partners snatching your precious time with your favorite parent. Aramis, however, was looking right at Athos, head cocked slightly, and Athos' attempt to surreptitiously size him up failed before he even started.

"Sorry," he said, blanking slightly in his nerves. Aramis' head tilted further, his sleepy eyes quizzical, and Athos figured he had to elaborate. "Sorry we keep stopping you from talking to your mom. But you were asleep, so I thought--"

Aramis reached up and covered Athos' mouth, his drowsy eyes coming sharply awake, and Athos fell silent, startled. He blinked at Aramis, and Aramis shook his head in disbelief.

"Why," he said, "would I be annoyed that the people I love the most want to talk to each other?"

Heat crept back into Athos' cheeks. Oh. Or that.

"I can't believe she got you to call her Catalina," Aramis said, and he flashed an irritated glance at the phone. "I wish she'd have let me be awake for that."

Athos turned redder. "I didn't have a choice," he said against Aramis' hand, the words muffled but clear.

Aramis grinned at him and moved his hand, and Athos leaned gratefully forward for his forgiveness-kiss. 

"Yeah, they're kissing again," Porthos said then, and Athos jumped about a foot back. Even Aramis turned horribly red this time, and Porthos grinned shamelessly at him. Porthos' dark eyes, Athos could see at once, had not missed a word of Athos' latest laughably spectacular basic-human-emotion fail, but his gaze on Athos' was sympathetic, at least. "No, they're done now, I'll give you your kid back."

She said something, then, and Porthos' gaze turned inward, the smallest flicker of soft wonder crossing his face before he smiled. "Yeah, I will," he said. "Thanks, Mama Cata. Talk to you later."

Aramis' eyes had gone suspiciously misty when he took the phone back from Porthos. "Mama, please stop letting my boyfriends call you by your first name," he said, and reached his fingers down to tangle with Porthos' on top of the sheets. "It makes me cry."

"That's not our fault," Porthos told him, flashing a grin at Athos and arching back in a stretch. He'd slept naked again, and Athos did his very best not to let his body quicken at the sight of all that warm skin--not while they still had Aramis' mother on the phone, at least.

"Oh, is Luz there?" Aramis said, his eyes a thousand miles away as he perked up, and Athos and Porthos shared a fond grin. Aramis' cousins had to be starting to trickle in. "Yeah, yeah, put her on." He grinned a little abashedly at Porthos and Athos, and tilted the phone away from his mouth for a moment. "Sorry, good morning, you two--do you mind if I--?"

"Of course not," Porthos said, leaning over the side of the bed for his boxers. "We'll give you the room, 'case you wanna talk shit about us."

"I'd never," Aramis said, fluttering his eyelashes at them. "Meet you in the common room in a bit?"

"Yes," Athos said, and leaned in for another feather-light kiss before he and Porthos pulled on bottoms and slipped from the room.

"His mom's the fucking worst," Porthos groaned when the door closed behind them. "And you know by worst I mean she's an actual angel descended from heaven to make us fucking weep for days."

"Yes," Athos agreed, sidling close to Porthos as they walked down the hall. That was all he could say in return, but it was enough for Porthos to understand. 

He was very careful with Athos as they settled in on the couch in the common room. Porthos stretched out first on the couch, then held out his arms for Athos to curl up small and tight against his chest and torso. Athos went without a word of protest, didn't even wiggle to find a better position. There was nothing better, for him.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Porthos said, kissing the closest part of Athos he could reach--which happened to be the back of his neck, and led to a very pleasant shiver all down his spine.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Athos echoed. He let the shiver echo all the way to the tips of his fingers without trying to squash it back down. He felt he could let himself savor it today. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." He loved the way he could feel Porthos' voice in his chest, when he lay himself out against him like this. "I don't think I've ever slept better than I have this week."

"This is the most I've slept in years," Athos agreed, folding himself tighter against Porthos' chest. 

It was a very specific word choice that he hoped Porthos wouldn't call him on; he really didn't want to talk about the chemical sleep Anne had used to give him, the only way he'd ever been able to sleep, in high school. Not a lie, he told himself. Not lying to Porthos, just--not sharing everything. Not yet.

"I hope--" Porthos started, then broke off. He hesitated, then coughed. "Ah, never mind."

Athos ran his hand over Porthos' ribs, flattened his palm against the jut of his hipbone. "No, what?"

Porthos was quiet for a moment; Athos could imagine him chewing his lip. "This part--this isn't gonna change, right?" Porthos said quietly. "Sharing a bed, waking up together. We can still do that when class starts back up, can't we?"

He could _hear_ Porthos' heart beating harder. He could feel it against his cheek, and Athos couldn't stop himself from holding on a little tighter. "I don't see why not," he said, as calmly as he could. He had purposefully been avoiding thoughts of the week to come, but it was already Thursday. He supposed it was inescapable at this point. "There's no reason we shouldn't, unless--unless one of us didn't want to."

"I think we'd have to lock Aramis in his room every night to keep him away," Porthos reasoned, and Athos snorted softly despite his nerves. "And I...I don't want to go back to how things were."

_Breathe. Breathe._ "Me, neither," Athos said softly.

Porthos squeezed him closer, a brief, silent thanks, and Athos heard a suspiciously wet little sniff. He didn't comment on it, though, just held Porthos equally close in response, until Porthos' heart eased back to normal. 

"Are you sure you don't mind us taking over your room?" Porthos asked quietly, when his death grip on Athos had loosened slightly--like he just neded to check, before they moved on completely from the subject.

Athos pressed his face into Porthos' chest. He was honest with Catalina this morning; he could be honest with Porthos now. "It never feels better than when you two are there," he said at last, when he'd managed to find his voice. 

Porthos' fingers flexed on his shoulders. "I can feel your heart pounding," he said, his voice so quiet, just for Athos' ears. "Is that because--look, I don't want to push you, I don't want to make you think you have to tell us what we want to hear--"

"No," Athos said, sitting up at once. He had at least fucking learned something from his mistakes earlier this week--not to let Porthos sit in his own doubts for too long, not to let Porthos dwell on any idea that Athos might be prevaricating in his feelings for him. 

Porthos deserved the same reassurances he constantly gave Athos.

He twisted so he could look Porthos in the eye--and then see the very subtle dread in Porthos' face. Athos could feel his own heart pounding, now, too. "Porthos, no, my heart's racing because it still gives me palpitations to try to be honest about my feelings."

And thank God, thank God, Porthos smiled at that. "Honest?" he echoed softly, his hands reaching up for Athos' face.

Athos sighed as Porthos' hands cupped his cheeks, letting his eyes fall shut as Porthos' thumbs traced over the arch of his cheekbones to his temples. "Honest. I swear, I'm trying to be as honest about these things as I can."

"I know you are." Porthos' fingers felt so good. The ridges of his fingerprints, the scratch of his calluses catching on Athos' hair. "Sorry to keep being so careful with you. It's just my worst fucking nightmare to push too hard and scare you away."

"Probably for the best," Athos said, his mind on autopilot from how Porthos' fingers were making him drift. It still shocked him, a little, that two people could be so blunt and honest with each other. "I'm not planning on going anywhere, but I do have more in common with a skittish housecat than an actual human."

"For fuck's sake," Porthos half-laughed, and pulled Athos back down to his chest. Athos went without a fight, tucking his head under Porthos' chin and doing his very best to soak all of Porthos' steadiness into himself.

"I don't want this week to end," he said, and felt Porthos quiet beneath him. "I don't want to go back to work, I don't want to have to pretend to be a functional person again."

"That's not pretending," Porthos said quietly. "You're doing so well, Athos."

"Because you two put solid ground under my feet again." He knew his own shortcomings as unshakably as he knew Porthos' and Aramis' strengths. 

Porthos' terse huff of breath made Athos' back prickle; that was a frustrated sound. "I have no fucking clue where you get this idea that you have to be one hundred percent together, all the time, without needing any kind of support system," Porthos said, and that was unmistakably irritation in his voice as his shoulders hunched up.

Athos couldn't stop his own cringe, curling away like a whipped dog from Porthos' disappointment in him. At once Porthos' body unkinked, his arms settling more fully around Athos' shoulders. "No, no, shit, I'm not mad at you, I'm sorry. I'm mad at your fucking parents, because I know you got it from them."

Everything in Athos' body had eased at _I'm not mad at you,_ but he tensed right back up again at the mention of his parents.

But no, Porthos was right. That was, exactly, where he'd gotten that idea.

"Yes," he said quietly, his voice falling heavy between them. "I've always needed too much help for their tastes."

It's why his parents had liked Anne so much. She'd been Athos' crutch, giving him the illusion of self-reliance, so they didn't need to care. She'd given him his _help_ , sour in his mouth like the bitter grit of her pills in alcohol.

"The thing I learned growing up," Porthos said after a very deliberate pause, "about people who _aren't_ mentally ill, and don't care to learn, is that they don't know how fucking hard it is to do the slightest shit when your brain is working against you twenty-four-fucking-seven."

Athos went very still against Porthos' chest.

"You'd see it all the time at a lot of shelters." Porthos' voice was harsh, even as his arms were still gentle and warm. "The people who run that shit don't know what to do with homeless people with mental illnesses, y'know? Bipolar or schizophrenic or depressed. They don't get that it's ten times harder when you're sick, they think they're just lazy or not trying hard enough."

"Yes," Athos said. Something hard and acidic was growing hot in his chest. "They never understand. They tell you not to be so quiet when the thought of speaking makes you want to be sick. They tell you to stop being a statue in the corner when you're so overstimulated you just want to crawl upstairs and die. They tell you to just--"

He choked on that one. He couldn't finish that sentence in front of Porthos.

_Just stop this pathetic cry for attention, it's exhausting,_ his mother had told him in the hospital, when the red marks he'd left around his own throat were still livid and aching.

"They don't understand at all," he said instead, feeling his own _anger_ scalding hot for the first time in a long time. "They don't even pretend to try to."

"I know." Porthos kissed his hair. "So believe me when I say I know how hard you're working, and me and Aramis are happy to give you a place to stand while you do that."

Athos closed his eyes and breathed. Breathed. "Thank you," he said. The acid in his chest made his voice crack, but he knew Porthos wouldn't judge him for it. "I hadn't thought about it like that before."

Porthos chuckled softly. "Yeah, I figured you hadn't. We're gonna figure out real life together, too, babe, I promise you."

Athos' body melted, limb by limb, into Porthos' embrace, until he was limp and easy on top of Porthos' broader frame. "I'm so glad you're moving in," he said, because it was all he could say, really.

Porthos' breath huffed out warm in surprise.

It took Athos a minute to realize he'd actually moved _faster_ than his partner, emotionally, for once in his life. 

"I hadn't meant to say that yet," he said, feeling _yet another_ mortified blush creeping up his neck, for what had to be the fifteenth time this morning, after his conversation with Catalina. "But--that's how it feels to me. I suppose you should know that."

"You are going to fucking kill me," Porthos said, his voice dangerously close to cracking, and Athos had learned enough in this week to know that was a good, _good_ overly-emotional voice of Porthos'.

He smiled. He'd done something right.

"Well, in that case," Porthos said, and kissed Athos' hair again. "If this is how it's gonna be. Guess we'll have to figure out how to actually get shit done instead of just fucking nonstop, huh?"

"Says who?" Aramis drawled, appearing in the doorway. Athos heard Porthos' heart spike under his cheek, and he couldn't stop his own pleased thrill as Aramis flopped down beside them.

Porthos kicked out, nudging Aramis' leg. "Says our grades, asshole. Didn't we have a philosophy essay or some shit we needed to do this week?"

Aramis groaned theatrically and rolled over on top of Porthos, tucking his head beside Athos'. "No, no, it is still Thanksgiving, I'm still on vacation."

Athos buried his face in Porthos' chest with a disgruntled sound. He'd forgotten all about homework. He was fairly sure he'd already missed a deadline for some lesson plans he needed to turn in for the daycare, and it was getting more and more tedious to pretend he wasn't actually a native French speaker in his other important class. "My brain's fucked," he said against Porthos' skin. "I've completely forgotten everything except sex."

"You're both lying on top of me," Porthos pointed out, "how do you think I feel?"

"Hard?" Aramis guessed, a smile in his voice as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Very. But my cock can wait, how's the family?"

Aramis laughed. His other hand traced over Athos' scalp, pushing through the mess of his hair, and Athos' mind plummeted into calm depths almost instantly. He lay there listening to Aramis recount his phone call with one ear and Porthos' heartbeat with the other, and suspended between them, the frustrated and furious memory of earlier faded. He could think about things almost clearly.

He hadn't thought about that conversation in a long time, the one with his mother in the hospital. He'd known, in a fuzzy way, that it had _happened,_ but he hadn't been able to recall the specifics in so long. It had been packed away in the padlocked boxes he'd put all the other memories of those months in--when he remembered anything about them at all. So much of it was just a blank space where thoughts should have been.

It was still incredible to him, that she'd thought it had been a cry for attention. She hadn't been able to see--had never been able to see--how all he'd wanted was to disappear.

_"Amor."_

He landed back in his body with an unceremonious jolt. "Me?"

"Yes, you." Aramis' fingernails scratched once, ever so lightly, over his scalp, and Athos shivered. "Okay? You're far away."

"We were talking about his parents," Porthos told Aramis in a low voice, and Aramis' _ah_ sounded about as bitter as the taste in Athos' own mouth.

"Not quite," Athos said, and lifted his head. He didn't want to dwell on it anymore. "More specifically, we were talking about how my parents have never given me any support." He looked at Porthos and smiled, encouraged by the warmth in Porthos' eyes. "And how you two very much do," he added, looking at Aramis.

The light of Aramis' smile was enough to banish the clouds of his past completely.

"We were also talking about," Porthos said, his warm _(proud)_ gaze in Athos' ensuring his mock-serious tone didn't cause any anxiety, "how the three of us are gonna have to get better at being productive instead of just fucking all the time--"

Aramis started to scoff, his face a picture-perfect pout of outrage, when Porthos cut the legs out from under him by adding, "If we're gonna _move in_ together."

Aramis' mouth snapped shut so fast Athos heard his teeth click, and he stared wide-eyed at Porthos. 

Porthos' grin widened. "As Athos put it just before you came in."

That wide-eyed gaze turned to Athos, who decided at this point just to surrender to the blush that wanted to devour him whole. "That is," he stumbled, trying to cling to a shred of his dignity, "if that's how you--if you don't mind that I see it like that. And only if you want to keep spending nights, of cou--"

Aramis moved like lightning, taking advantage of Athos' already-open mouth to shove his tongue down Athos' throat, so Athos figured that was a _yes, I want to._

Porthos laughed beneath them as Aramis hauled Athos closer and kissed him hard and frenzied, and it was all Athos could do to keep his head on straight until they pulled apart.

_"Fuck_ yes," Aramis said, grinning wild at them both, and Athos managed a shell-shocked nod.

The shower was a great deal chattier than usual, when they finally dragged themselves into it. Aramis was alive with happiness from his family's call, telling Athos and Porthos everything--and Athos did his best to listen carefully. He was starting to realize this family may become as good as his own, very soon. Porthos, too, seemed lighter, and Athos thought he was just reflecting Aramis' good mood, at first. Then he found himself the recipient of a very gentle hair-washing and a very tender kiss, as Porthos steered him under the water to rinse his hair, and Athos realized he'd made Porthos happy, too. 

Telling Porthos that, yes, Athos wanted this too, that Porthos should come in and stay--he supposed he could see how that would be received well.

He was shyly pleased with himself as they toweled off in his room after their shower. He didn't feel like he could take _full_ credit, since it had just been a slip of the tongue and not the proper speech he felt they deserved, but. He'd made them happy. He'd done something _right._

And it wasn't even dinner time yet.

As if thoughts of dinner had summoned the call, a staccato, muffled buzz started up.

"That's you," Aramis said to Porthos, nudging the pile of discarded jeans toward him, and pulled Athos down onto the bed to cuddle while Porthos dug for his phone.

Porthos came up with his phone in his hand and an even bigger grin on his face, and he sat down beside them on the bed as he answered. "Hello?"

An earsplitting chorus of children's voices screeched _"Happy Thanksgiving, Porthos!"_ in return, audible from where Athos and Aramis were laying. Porthos was laughing even as he winced away from the noise.

"Happy Thanksgiving, everybody," he answered, and Athos was lost in the way Porthos' eyes crinkled at the corners, smiling in a way Athos had never seen him do before. "I assume that's what you said, at least, since I think my ear's bleeding from the noise."

His smile went softer, fonder as a single voice answered him, the noise dying down, and he settled back against the wall. "I say it every year because you do your best to blow out my eardrums every year, Flea."

Aramis sighed happily and rolled over into Athos' arms, snuggling in close and arching up to nibble at Athos' cheek. "I'm so glad his family called, too."

"Yes," Athos agreed, brushing his nose against Aramis' own. 

"I promise I'll go right back to answering texts next week," Porthos said, stretching his legs out to tangle with Athos' own. "Been busy. ...Yeah, that kind of busy, fuck off. I heard you got a new girlfriend and didn't tell me shit, so you can get off the high horse."

"Family drama," Aramis sing-songed against Athos' lips, and Athos grinned.

"Though," and Porthos' leg prodded at them both, "I'm thinking about dumping both of them if they keep making out when I'm on the phone. I was talking to Aramis' frickin' mom this morning, and they were doing it then, too."

Aramis laughed and rolled over until his back was pressed to Athos' chest. Removing the temptation, Athos supposed--but really, just trading it for a different one, as Aramis' slim frame fit neatly against the curve of Athos' front.

Aramis let out one of his soft purrs as Athos kissed and nipped gently at Aramis' neck and shoulder, but aside from arching back into Athos and humming contentedly, Aramis didn't seem inclined to do anything else to jeopardize Porthos' phone call. Athos followed suit and restrained himself, too, to just wrapping his arms around Aramis and kissing his neck. 

"How many turned up for dinner?" Porthos was asking Flea, his face set in thoughtful frown lines. "That's...yeah. I mean, more than last year, but--"

Porthos froze, and both Athos and Aramis looked up. Porthos did not go still. Porthos was always in motion, vibrating with life. 

"He just turned up out of nowhere?" Porthos said, his voice strangled. Athos started to push himself up, worried, but Porthos saw their concern and motioned them back down. "Yeah, of course I fucking want to, is he there?"

"Porthos?" Aramis' hand settled over Porthos' ankle, stroking gently over the taut skin, and Porthos nodded absently to him, his eyes far away.

Then his face tightened, his shoulders tensing up, and he pressed the phone tighter to his ear. "Hey, man," he said, and his whole voice sounded different. Rougher, guarded. "Happy fucking holidays, it's been a year and a half."

Aramis kept his hand on Porthos' leg, and Athos stroked over Aramis' shoulder, his eyes on Porthos. There was something very complicated going on behind Porthos' very still face. 

"Yeah," he said, shortly. "Ain't it always something. You staying around?" Whatever the other man said made Porthos' eyes flash hard, harder than Athos had ever seen them. "Don't you say a word about her. She has a house of kids to--"

Porthos' jaw clicked shut, and a very old pain flickered across his eyes. "Sure." 

Athos knew that tone of voice; he got it himself, when he talked to his parents. _Whatever you say. Just stop talking._

"Okay." Porthos rubbed at his face, brows knit tight. "Okay, you gonna be around come New Year's? I'm bringing some people by the house I want you to--yeah. No, I get it. Put Flea back on?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, mouthing curses at the air. "Yeah. Take care, brother."

Aramis rubbed his thumb over the bone of Porthos' ankle, and Porthos flashed a weak smile at him.

His shoulders slumped in relief when Athos heard the higher pitch of Flea's voice back on the line. "You hear any of that? Yeah. No, I--no. I don't fucking know. Forget it. Talk to me about the kids."

Porthos' smile came back steadily with whatever Flea was telling him, and Aramis curled himself deeper into Athos' body when Porthos' need didn't seem so pressing. Athos kissed Aramis' shoulder again, more comforting than sensual, and Aramis tilted his head back to nuzzle into Athos' embrace. 

"No, I'm not gonna let you give them the shovel talk," Porthos said at one point, and Athos had to stifle his snicker in Aramis' hair. "At least, not using my fucking minutes to do it. You're gonna meet them at New Year's, you can do it then. Luisa, too. No, don't put her on, she's busy as fuck, just tell her I--fuck, Flea--"

"Getting her anyway?" Athos guessed, and Porthos badly hid his smile in the roll of his eyes.

Then his sarcasm dropped and his face opened up, and his smile just _shone_. "Hey, yeah, I told her not to get you, I'm sorry. Happy Thanksgiving."

Aramis rolled onto his back and pressed his face into Athos' neck. "He's going to kill me with that smile. Dear God."

"Yes," Athos agreed. It was all he could say. Porthos' eyes were miles away, but his smile was _here_ , and--too much for him. 

"I'm really good, Lu," Porthos said, his gaze flicking up to Athos and Aramis for a moment. "Yeah--yeah, poly, you were right." Aramis sniggered against Athos' skin, and Athos closed his eyes and smiled. "I'm gonna have to get back to them in a minute," Porthos went on, and he sounded like all his rough edges had been sanded away in a second. "But I did want to say hi. How's it going?"

Athos had never seen Porthos on the phone with Luisa before--Porthos usually ducked away for his phone calls. It was another sign of how much Porthos trusted them now, that he just stayed. He was a little curled-in on himself, but--more open than Athos had seen him in so long. 

"Good," Porthos said, his eyes liquid and soft. "I'm real glad. And--yeah, did she say? I will, New Year's, I promise." 

His eyes darted to Athos, needing--and Athos nodded, smiled at him, and Porthos grinned back. "Definitely New Year's," he said into the phone. "So, soon. Yeah. Yeah, I promise." 

His eyes shone wet, then, at whatever she said, and Porthos' smile was wobbly. "I love you too. No, she's--just say bye for me. Yeah. Love you, Lulu."

When he hung up, he took a deep breath, looking down at the phone in his hand. 

Then he tossed it over the side of the bed and dove down into Aramis and Athos' waiting arms.

"I wish I was there," he said, his voice muffled against the blankets as they curled around him. "With you two, of course. But there."

"Of course you do," Athos said, because it seemed like the thing to say. He was an adult. He could ignore the momentary burn of jealousy, because for heaven's sake Porthos _just said_ he wanted Athos and Aramis there too, honestly. "They're your family."

"I just wanna help with the wrangling," Porthos sighed, rolling over onto his back and pulling them onto his chest. "It's a full house, bunch of former kids turned up, and then--" He broke off with a grunt, chewing on his bottom lip, and Athos guessed this was the difficult part of the conversation.

"Problem?" Aramis asked lightly, tracing his fingers over Porthos' collarbone.

Porthos caught Aramis' fingers and kissed the tips, his brows knit and his eyes far away. "Have I told you both about Charon?"

Athos and Aramis shared a glance. "Mentioned in passing, I think," Athos said slowly. The name did sound familiar, as an old friend, but not as often as Flea, or the house.

Porthos tapped Aramis' fingers against his lips. His face was set, jaw tight. "I've known him since I was--ten, I guess. He's older than us--older 'n you, Athos. He's a good friend, it's more that he--" Porthos blew out his breath, and Athos knew that look, too. 

That look, fierce and heavy but fraying at the edges--Athos knew the feeling, if not how it looked on his own face. Unable to stop caring for a person, because they were family, but--when they'd let you down too many times to still _trust._

"He doesn't make the best choices," Porthos said finally, confirming every one of Athos' suspicions. "He'd look after me and Flea when we were younger, but he looks out for number one a little more."

Aramis stretched out beside him, resting his head on his free hand. "I would guess he and Luisa don't get along, from what we heard."

Porthos shook his head. One corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile devoid of any humor, that vanished as quickly as it came. "Don't think she's ever forgiven him for the state we were in when we came to her. He'd ditched us when we tried to start going to school."

Aramis' eyes flashed, and Athos tamped down hard on his own knee-jerk response. "Big of him," Aramis said, his voice carefully neutral.

"We could handle ourselves by then," Porthos said, even as his eyes gave the lie to the casual tone of his voice. "But no. She doesn't let him spend the night. He used to deal, and Luisa's got rules." Porthos' eyes darkened, and there was a pause of clear remembering. Then he shook it off and added, a little lighter, "Anyway, house is a safe space, and he's straight as a fuckin' board, so he can't stay there anyway. But he comes around to see me and Flea sometimes."

"I'm sorry you missed him," Athos said, because Porthos did look sad. Athos was more sorry for Porthos' feelings than his own (and Aramis was looking murderous again), but he did mean it. "It sounds...complicated."

Porthos nodded, flashing Athos a faint smile. "Best word for it."

"Holidays and family drama," Aramis said matter-of-factly, settling down beside Porthos. "Like cookies and cream."

"Turkey and cranberry sauce," Athos agreed.

Aramis beamed up at him. "Salt and pepper."

"Eggnog and poor decisions."

Porthos snorted. "I get it, you're hungry."

Athos and Aramis grinned at each other over Porthos' chest. "I could eat," Aramis said, preening a bit for having shaken Porthos from his gloom. Athos gave him a look, and Aramis at least moderated the smugness on his face.

"Yeah." Porthos scrubbed a hand over his face, then smiled up at them. "Yeah, let's eat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me [here.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than I'd expected, but it just keeps getting away from me and I thought it'd be best to break here. Many thanks to Melly for kicking my butt about it, and Kelsey for lovely encouragement. 
> 
> Warnings for Athos' terrible emotionally abusive and distant family, but it's more in reflection and less in actual practice.

"Serge, you've outdone yourself," Aramis said gaily as he loaded up his plate with mashed potatoes. 

The old cook grunted. "Same as it is every year." He was carving slices off a massive turkey at the end of the serving line, and Athos' mouth was watering so much he couldn't talk for fear of drooling on everything.

"It looks delicious," Porthos said, smiling so broadly at Serge that the older man had to smile. Porthos, of course, got a few extra slices of turkey for his compliment, and Athos and Aramis shared a knowing look.

Theirs was the only hall open for a full Thanksgiving dinner on campus, and nearly everyone who'd stayed over break had crowded into Alexander's dining room. Athos recognized quite a few people as the three of them carried their trays from the line--people they undoubtedly could sit with, and have a perfectly nice dinner--but.

The three of them stood silently, a little awkwardly, by the drinks, scanning the dining room. Waiting for somebody to say something.

"Does it make me a terrible person," Aramis said at last, giving voice to Athos' thoughts, "if I don't want to share you both just yet?"

Porthos' half-smile flashed almost shyly back at the two of them. "That'd make two of us, if it did."

"Three," Athos said, just quiet enough to hear over the chatter and bustle of a full dining room.

He could feel them both smiling at him, and he cleared his throat and made a beeline for the last empty table he could see. 

By the window, their chairs drawn so their backs were to the hall proper, it was a fine approximation of privacy. Aramis took the middle chair, and Athos was set to gently rib him for needing to be in the middle again--until he saw the hesitant look on Aramis' face as they sat.

"Yes?" he asked, catching Aramis' eye. 

Aramis blinked, looking caught out--then ducked his head and smiled. He tugged his chair in a little closer to the table, and looked almost bashfully between Athos and Porthos on either side of him. "It's...it's stupid, really."

"Not if you want it," Porthos said, and he reached across the table for Aramis' hand.

Aramis nodded, nibbling his lip for a moment. "Can we..." He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Can we say grace before we eat?" Athos could see his ears turning pink. "We--we always do it at home, is all, I--"

"Luisa has us do it, too," Porthos said, cutting gently across Aramis' increasingly flustered reasoning. Aramis smiled gratefully at him, and Porthos squeezed his hand.

"Why don't we, then," Athos said, and held his hands out.

He wasn't uncomfortable, exactly. His family was nominally religious, since a church affiliation was necessary for business relationships and appearances. Athos himself even checked "Catholic" on forms that asked, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd been to church. Or even had any personal devotions, for that matter.

But it mattered to Aramis, so he'd hold hands and smile and think his kindest thoughts. It was the least he could do.

"Am...am I officially the embarrassing member of the family?" Aramis asked, chewing on his lip and looking up at his eyelashes at them. His hand squeezed awkwardly at Athos'.

Athos and Porthos' eyes met over the table, and Porthos smiled. "I don't give a damn who's looking at us right now. Do you?"

Athos ducked his head, feeling his lips curl up. "Not a bit."

Aramis coughed, laughed, and his hands eased up. "Well, then."

Aramis looked up at the window outside. The sun was low in a clear sky, and a faint dusting of snow still puddled in the shade of trees, the corner of the building. The sun had burned off the rest of it, but Athos had a feeling it would be back soon. Aramis' skin glowed bronze in the reflected light, collarbones sharp in the low scoop of his shirt today. 

Angelic, Athos thought, as Aramis closed his eyes and smiled. "Bless us, O Lord," he began quietly, "and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive..."

And to his own surprise Athos found himself reciting along in his head, the words coming back without any prompting. _From Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen._

Aramis sighed when he'd finished, easy at the familiar comfort of the prayer. "Since it's Thanksgiving," he said, his voice private and soft, just for them, "I want to give thanks for not just the food, but for this week that we've had."

Athos felt Porthos' fingers tighten in his own, and he squeezed back. His own eyes were starting to feel hot, and he kept his gaze lowered. 

"I couldn't imagine being more grateful for what I have right now," Aramis went on. He sounded the slightest bit choked-up, too--at least they were all being embarrassingly emotional together. "So my thanks are for this time we've had to learn that all over again. And--" 

He cleared his throat, his voice easing as it grew slightly less personal. "And for my family, of course, and this family the three of us have now. For the people we love who are far away today, the people that helped us get here so we could find each other." 

Aramis sounded so reverent, so gentle. "Especially the ones who aren't with us anymore, who would have loved to see what we've become--for my _abuela,_ always." He fell respectfully silent, and it pressed on Athos' ears for a painful moment, made the heat in his eyes swell up.

Porthos' rough voice made Athos' eyes sting worse. "And my mom."

Athos squeezed Porthos' hand, felt Porthos squeeze back, and breathed through the crushing pain in his chest.

"And my brother," he said, barely recognizing his own words.

His vision swam with tears, and he realized he was clinging to both their hands so tightly his own was starting to cramp. He eased up slightly, unable to tear his eyes from the turkey on his plate, and Aramis exhaled softly.

"For the people we love," he said, his hand tight in Athos', "and for all the love we have for each other, we give our thanks. Amen."

"Amen," Athos and Porthos echoed, and the three of them sat, their hands linked, until all their eyes were dry again.

"You never get to say grace again," Porthos said finally, pulling his hand back from Aramis so he could wipe his own eyes. "I vote Athos next time, he knows when to stop fucking talking."

Aramis laughed, and Athos had to smile. Porthos smiled across the table at them both, the affection plain on his face, and his leg nudged against Athos' under the table.

"Let's eat?" Aramis asked, his fingers brushing gently over the back of Athos' hand as he let him go.

Athos felt his cheeks heating at their gentleness. His face had to be a wreck, for them to see how much this was affecting him. "Yes," he said, picking up his own fork, and maybe he'd be able to look them in the eye once he had some food in him.

They mercifully gave him time and talked about the food instead. Aramis missed his mother's cooking ("we don't do a turkey, anyway, we decided it was more fun to have another holiday for tamales"), and Porthos tried, with some difficulty, to explain the complicated process for choosing who got to split the wishbone at the house's turkey dinner ("Flea's done it twice, I swear she fucking rigs it").

Athos chuckled at that, and he wasn't so self-absorbed that he missed the both of them looking up hopefully at him. He tried to smile back, but his stomach flipped at the _caution_ on both their faces. 

He set his fork down, his throat aching suddenly. "I'm sorry."

Aramis blinked, and Porthos paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "What for?"

"I'm--I'm making you worry, aren't I?" He couldn't even look at his food, the guilt was churning up so high in his stomach. He was ruining it again.

Aramis and Porthos shared a look that Athos couldn't decipher--a glance, really, but it was enough to tell Athos that they had a shorthand for this, for when he didn't understand the most basic human interactions. 

"We always worry about you," Aramis said, looking back at him. "When we talk about family, a little. Not because we think you can't handle it," he added hastily, obviously reacting to whatever Athos' face did when his stomach curled into a knot at Aramis' words. "Only because--you don't talk about it that much, so it's hard to know what's safe."

"We don't want to make you sad," Porthos said, and the press of his leg under the table was a comfort Athos could accept. None of them were looking at it, he didn't have to acknowledge it, he could just lean into it. "And we don't want to make you feel bad for needing your privacy about it. So, I guess we just try to be--careful."

Athos nodded. It was all he could really do. 

The caring on their faces undid him--the way Catalina's caring had broken him this morning. 

But that had turned out all right, so. So.

"I don't know how to do this," he said. He couldn't bear to look at their faces, but he couldn't look away. A lifetime of reading situations for danger, for the tiny shifts that would make a conversation suddenly too much for him--he had to watch, to see if they were going to be okay with what he was saying. "Be part of a family, I mean. Family for me means stiff and cold and--"

_silence and impossible expectations and a wake in the living room that I couldn't leave_

His throat was a solid mass of ice, and he had to stop and swallow twice, three times before it cleared. 

"Always?" Aramis asked. Athos could tell he dreaded the answer he was about to get. 

"Mostly." Athos breathed, took a drink of water. "It got--that is to say, everything became..." _You can tell them. Just tell them._ "It was always oppressive. It became impossible after Thomas died."

Porthos nodded. Something in Porthos' face understood all too well, and Athos didn't want to know why Porthos understood that so much. "I bet it did."

"He was everyone's favorite," Athos said. The words just blurted up out of him, uncontrollable. "Smiled more. Talked more. He was a better listener, he liked people, he--" 

He forced himself to stop, to stop vomiting up everything he missed about his perfect baby brother. It was so much harder on days like today, when he had other, better families to see as models. To see how they might have been able to work.

Porthos' leg pressed solid against his, and Aramis' hand reached out to cover Athos' own on the table.

Athos swallowed again. "Father's been in France, mostly, since Tommy's been gone," he said, in a more normal tone of voice. "For the company. It's all business, they say, very above-board, of course, completely legitimate." His hand had closed into a fist under Aramis', he noted dimly, watching the fingers curl and muscles flex like someone else was doing it. "But I know he can't stand that fucking house either anymore."

Bitter, bitter, bitter. He felt himself smiling and didn't know why. He certainly wasn't happy. "He gets an excuse. I don't."

They didn't try to pull him out of it. They let him come back in his own time. Athos wasn't sure how long he sat in a haze, staring into space and remembering.

Aramis and Porthos had stories, he remembered dimly. Good memories, traditions. Things they shared.

"Thomas and I," he said finally. "We'd. Um. They'd sit us across the table from each other, and we'd."

Aramis and Porthos let him stumble through it. Porthos smiled at him, encouraging, and Aramis' hand smoothed warm over his.

"I'd tap my finger," he got out. It was so hard, why was it so impossible to just talk about this simple thing? Had he ever told anyone this? Had he even told Anne? She would have just given him a look, that "stop being a child" glare she perfected when they were seventeen-- _no, don't think about it, don't think about that._

"I'd tap my finger," he said, stronger, "and Thomas would tap the same finger." _So soft, casual, no one would notice._ "Then he'd add something, like looking to the left. So I'd tap my finger, look to the left, and then have to add something myself. And--so on."

"Ohh," Aramis said, his smile widening. "I get it."

"That's genuis," Porthos said. His eyes shone with genuine pleasure, not a little pride, and Athos' frozen insides thawed a bit.

"How long could you keep it going?" Aramis was beaming just at the idea, and Athos ducked his head, embarrassed that they'd seized on it with so much interest.

"Usually just a course," he said, "before one of us forgot, or someone demanded our conversation and we had to drop it. But then we'd start over." He was smiling again, he could feel it on his face. It didn't feel the same as the last one. "No one ever figured it out--Tommy was always playing games, and they'd--"

Funny, these words came out easier than all the others. "They'd all given up on me a long time ago," he finished.

It was amazing, the way that made Porthos and Aramis' faces change. Porthos' smile faded, just a little, and Aramis' eyes hardened.

"This is gonna sound like bullshit," Porthos said, his tone brooking no argument despite that, "but, babe--they really don't know what they're missing."

With Aramis' hand still clasping his, and with Porthos' touch under the table grounding him, Athos could fight the urge to recoil, to shake it off and say no. 

"If you say so," he said, and they both smiled at him.

"We do," Aramis said, and leaned in to kiss him. Athos savored it--a soft press of lips, the barest taste of cranberry sauce, Aramis' warmth radiating out. 

When Aramis leaned back, it gave him the strength to talk more. "I see normal families," Athos confessed quietly, "any family that loves each other, really, and it's--it's a movie to me. Something from TV. It doesn't seem real, that it--that it could ever include me."

Aramis' eyes glowed with fervor, but he didn't say a word as he silently squeezed Athos' hand. 

Porthos nodded, taking it in. His face was very serious. 

"Get used to it, then," he said finally, his dark eyes bright. 

All Athos could do was nod--slow at first, then all at once, clinging to Aramis' hand and staring at Porthos' face and, _yes, yes, I want to, I can try._

Porthos' smile spread slow across his face, and he nodded back. "Yeah," he said, and the love--the faith--in his eyes settled in Athos' chest.

It didn't quite warm him all the way. But it was heavy, and real, and knowing that Porthos believed Athos deserved this... 

That did a lot.

Athos looked down at his plate, centering himself. Aramis' thumb ran back and forth over his knuckles, and Porthos' shin rested against his.

Okay.

"This cranberry sauce is good," he said, his voice something close to steady, and Aramis' smile flashed bright.

"Not canned, no," Aramis agreed, and he squeezed Athos' hand one more time before letting him go. 

"It's easy to make," Porthos chimed in, his smile in his eyes now as he scooped up another forkful of mashed potatoes. "That's one thing we always do at home, make the sauce ourselves."

Athos poked carefully at a berry. "How do you make it?"

"Literally just berries and sugar," Aramis laughed. "You boil it. I'll show you next time it's a cranberry holiday."

Athos smiled at him. "Sounds boring."

Aramis flicked a brussels sprout at him, and Athos dodged it with a grin.

He didn't dwell on his family at all for the rest of dinner. Or, rather-- When thoughts of his family tried to intrude, he just--said them out loud. It was a little less earth-shaking each time. "We have six courses at Thanksgiving," he said, when Aramis finished telling them about the big buffet table his family laid out. "All served, plates set down and taken away. My parents usually hire a full staff for the day."

"Sounds awkward as fuck," Porthos said, biting the floret off a piece of broccoli.

Athos grinned at him. "It's excruciating, yes." And then--they talked about something else. He didn't have to linger on it, didn't have to go on and explain the long guest list, the cocktails, the agonizing small talk. He could say the one thought, let it go, and let them move the conversation along.

They made it so easy, words just flowing back and forth between the two of them. Aramis and Porthos were special. They could finish each other's sentences, now--and they were so casual, comfortable in their touches. Aramis would lay his hand along Porthos' wrist as Porthos told them about the house; Porthos would reach out and push Aramis' hair back while Aramis talked, his hands fluttering back and forth with his words. 

Athos sank himself into that, and finished his turkey, and let Aramis wheedle him into a slice of pie. He didn't feel guilty when the creamy pumpkin filling melted in his mouth. He didn't think about his family at all.

Until they finished, and went back upstairs, and Athos checked on the phone he'd left on his desk.

_[Voicemail & Missed Call: Sophie Nguyen]_

It was too much to hope that Aramis and Porthos missed the way his legs cut out. Athos dropped like a stone into his desk chair, and almost instantly they were at his side, saying his name, touching his hand.

"It's fine," Athos said, his own voice faint over the rush in his ears. "Really, I just--wasn't expecting a call today."

Porthos' hand rested heavy on his shoulder; Aramis knelt beside Athos' chair, his hand on Athos' thigh. Grounding. Grounding.

Why was Sophie calling him?

"That name's familiar," Porthos said quietly, and Athos realized Porthos could see over his shoulder.

Athos swallowed. "You've met her," he said, his voice far closer to even than he would have expected it. "She's _maman's_ assistant." 

The silence hung awkward, confused, and Athos swallowed. For some reason, the memory made him hot with a strange shame. "She...moved me in, first year."

"Oh," Aramis said, his voice just as soft as Porthos'. They had met Sophie, that first day, but Athos couldn't remember how he'd introduced them. If he'd introduced them at all. Sophie had probably shaken their hands and introduced herself, because she was Sophie, but--of course she hadn't said she was Madame de la Fere's _personal assistant_ , that was far too grossly posh for Sophie to even think about saying.

And now Athos realized, two years too late, how it must seem to Aramis and Porthos--who'd had to move themselves in, who hadn't had anybody who could afford to come with them--that despite living barely an hour away, his parents had sent their personal assistant to move their oldest son into his first college dorm room. 

Athos barely remembered the day. Sharp Polaroid shots were technicolor in his mind--Aramis taking Athos' proffered hand and pulling him into a hug instead of shaking it, Porthos helping Athos swing his suitcase into the top shelf of their triple's tiny closet, the three of them heading down for their first dinner together--but that was all. He'd still been clawing his way out of the haze of the year before, then. 

He'd lain in bed awake for hours that first night, listening to Aramis and Porthos breathe and trying to convince himself that he could do this.

"You gonna listen to it?" Porthos' voice prompted him, tugging Athos' mind back to the present, and Athos blinked.

He opened his mouth, no idea of what he was going to say at all--and jumped when his phone rang in his hand. 

Only it wasn't Sophie again. It was Constance.

Relief hammered against his ribs with his madly pulsing heart, and he picked it up before he could think too much about it. Distraction. Yes. "Hey, Constance."

There was a pause, long enough to make him think he'd lost her--maybe she'd called by mistake--but then there was a loud sniff, a shuddering huff of static. _"Athos?"_

The world seemed to blur around him, sudden anxiety fogging everything else. Her voice was thick and harsh, clogged with something awful, and Athos sat up straight. "Constance? Are you okay?"

She sniffed again, and yes, that was a sob mixed in with the static this time. Aramis sat back on his heels, his spine rigid in concern, and Athost felt Porthos' hand close on his shoulder. _"No,"_ Constance said, her voice that painful high choke of someone holding back tears. _"I'm so sorry, I didn't know who else to call."_

"You can always call me," he said, responding to Aramis' worried head tilt with a helpless shrug. "Any time. What's wrong?"

_"Can--"_ Her voice cracked, and she sucked in a breath. _"Can you--I hate to ask, I'm so sorry, but could you pick me up at South Station?"_

"South Station?" He had no idea what--but the sound in the background-- "Constance, are you on a train?"

_"Bus."_ She let out another shaking sound, and sniffed back her tears. _"I--you know I went to J-Jacques' grandparents' place for Thanksgiving?"_

"Of course." His brain was on autopilot; he was barely seeing Aramis' face in front of him. Had she _left?_

_"We had--Jacques and I--it was--the most awful, awful fight,"_ she hiccuped, and she sounded so _miserable_ , Athos ached for her. _"I just, I couldn't even stay for dinner, I had to--his cousin Fleur drove me to the bus station, I got a ticket, I had to come home."_

"Of course we'll come get you," he said, grabbing for a scrap of paper and pen on his desk. "What's your bus number, do you know when you're getting in?"

_"Um--God, I don't even know, let me check..."_ She found her ticket and read it off to him, and she already sounded a little steadier, less frantic. Just having someone to talk to, Athos knew, made a world of difference. _"It says I get in at 6:15. I'm so sorry to ask, I'm sure you were having such a good Thanksgiving--"_

"Don't apologize," he said at once, and meant it wholeheartedly. "You don't have to, I promise, I'm happy to get you."

_"And Aramis and Porthos?"_ she asked, the faintest hint of humor in her voice. 

Athos had to smile. "If you want them to, of course."

_"I do."_ She sniffed again, but she was sounding better. _"Tell them I'm so sorry for ruining your evening."_

"You've done nothing of the kind." He had no idea how to be helpful over the phone. "Do you want to talk to--to Aramis, or Porthos?"

She sighed, and Aramis mouthed _crying?_ to Athos. Athos nodded, waiting for Constance's answer. _"Um. No, no. I'm going to call home, they're probably setting the table for dinner. I'll see you later."_

"All right." Athos glanced over his scribbled notes to make sure he had everything; he didn't want her to have to wait at the station, lonely with time to dwell on things. "We'll be there. Call me if you need anything at all."

_"Thank you, Athos."_

When he hung up, Aramis was staring up at him, and Porthos' hands pressed down on his shoulders. "What happened?" Aramis demanded.

Athos spread his hands. "She and Jacques had a huge fight. She walked out on dinner."

Aramis' jaw dropped. "No way."

It was so un-Constance, Athos couldn't blame him. "Apparently. She's on a bus somewhere in Connecticut. I said we'd get her."

"Of course we will," Porthos said, dropping his hands and moving to the bed. He sank down on the mattress, and the three of them stared at each other for a long moment.

"Do you think she's done for good?" Aramis asked. He didn't even try to conceal the eagerness in his voice.

Porthos gave him an exasperated look. "We can't ask her that."

"I didn't say I _would_ ," Aramis said, flashing him the do-you-think-I'm-an-idiot? look. "I just--wonder."

"She sounds like she's been crying her eyes out," Athos said, his eyes lingering on his phone. "And she didn't sound very resolved." She'd been so shaky. 

"It just happened," Porthos pointed out. "She's got no idea what to do, probably." Aramis sighed and nodded, and Athos decided it was probably safest to nod, too.

He'd--defer to their experience on this. As a rule, he didn't think, not at all, about the end of his relationship with Anne. 

Aramis' face creased in thought, and he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. Porthos sighed and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, and Athos tried not to feel like the ground was slipping away again. As much as he loved Constance, he hadn't been expecting they'd have to put themselves back together and act like ordinary people _today._ Tomorrow, maybe; not today.

The real world was back, and he couldn't say he'd missed it all that much.

"I didn't want this to be over yet."

Athos and Aramis looked up at Porthos, who immediately looked guilty that he'd said anything. "I mean..." He swallowed, his eyes dropping. "The alone time. Not needing to worry about anything but us."

Aramis slid back onto his haunches and smoothly rose. He sat down in Porthos' lap, putting his arms around him, and Porthos pulled him close. "We'll still have this," Aramis said, resting his cheek on Porthos' shoulder. 

"I know," Porthos said. He hugged Aramis to his chest, his eyes heavy and distant, and sighed. "I know, I do. Just--nice being in our own world, y'know?"

They were too far away, he wasn't touching them, and it made Athos ache. He stood without really thinking about it, and Porthos slid over with a pleased look of surprise. Athos sat down, slipped an arm around Porthos' waist, and leaned in close again. Yes. He knew exactly.

"We can..." He swallowed, licked his dry lips. "We'll still have evenings, just us in here. And we can find time."

"We could go on real dates," Aramis said, and Athos didn't miss the way Aramis was hiding his face in Porthos' shoulder as he said it. Trying to make it inconsequential, if they had contrary feelings. "Get off campus. Just us."

Athos smiled, and he felt Porthos breathe out softly. "I'd like that," Porthos said, almost hesitant.

To Athos' own surprise, he didn't even have to think about it. "So would I," Athos said, and Aramis sighed and lifted his head, his face easy. 

"So. We'll have time," Porthos said, like he could make it real by speaking it aloud. 

"Of course," Athos agreed. He rested his head against Porthos' back, and Porthos sighed and tilted his head back against Athos. "I do mean it--I am happy that you both want to--still sleep here."

Aramis' grin turned lazy, coy. "Move in?"

Athos allowed himself a very dignified roll of his eyes. "Yes, fine. Move in."

Aramis' throaty purr of delight sent a lovely spark of warmth through Athos' body. "I like thinking about it like that," Aramis said. "I know it's--it's only been a few days, but--"

"It's been a hell of a lot longer than a few days," Porthos laughed. "I mean--we already lived together first year. We've been joined at the hip for two years, you and me kept finding excuses not to leave here after he got sick..."

Aramis smiled at him. "Very true. So--functionally, not much is really changing, I know, but it still feels...significant."

Athos didn't, as a rule, disagree with Aramis on the important things, but--plenty was changing, it seemed to him. Yes, they'd spend their afternoons and evenings together as they always did, but--would Aramis and Porthos want to keep clothes in Athos' room? Books, readings, dishes? Would it be all right for him to just lie on the bed and stare into space while they did other things--or now that they were together, would they ask questions, would they need him to make the effort to shake himself out of it?

"I think a lot's probably going to change," Porthos said, softening the words even as he spoke them by pulling Aramis closer. "We're gonna have to figure out how much time together is too much, or how Athos and me can deal with you leaving your shit absolutely fucking everywhere, or how to work around it when we really do have to get shit done but I can't stop thinking about you both naked." 

Both Athos and Aramis snorted at that, but Porthos' words were a gentle, sobering admission that speed bumps were going to happen. It was inevitable.

"Luckily," Athos said, and was glad he didn't have to hide the scratch in his throat, "we have those lovely relationship ground rules."

Aramis nodded. "Talk."

"About everything," Porthos reminded them, and Athos kissed the back of Porthos' neck to show he knew.

He was still incredibly nervous about that. But it was part of the package, and he'd do it.

_No new secrets._

"I wouldn't mind," he said at length, "if you two want to leave clothes, or books in here. But I'll understand if you want to keep it all to your own bedrooms."

Aramis beamed at him, and Porthos nudged his head against Athos' affectionately. "I'd like to keep some clothes here," Aramis said, sitting up slightly and reaching for Athos' hand. "Things for more feminine days, maybe, in case of gender fluidity in the night." Their fingers twisted together, and Athos breathed easier, smiling back.

"I don't think I'll have to bring anything," Porthos said. His voice was fond, though, so Athos didn't panic at the first words. "I mean, you've been hoarding my clothes piece by piece for ages, so I think I've got a full wardrobe in here already."

Athos responded without thinking. "Don't look so good naked if you don't want me to take your clothes away." Aramis' bright laugh and Porthos' incredulous snort did a great deal for his flight response, and Athos finally settled back down fully against Porthos' side.

"Seriously, though..." Porthos reached down to cover Athos and Aramis' hands with his own. "This is gonna be work. We know that, right?"

Aramis' eyes were very far away, and he rested his head against Porthos' shoulder. "Yes."

Athos knew he had about three full seconds to answer before they got nervous. But in those three seconds, instead of planning out exactly how he could reassure them, he thought about how effortless everything had been, with Anne.

She'd intuited his every need. They'd finished each other's sentences--when there was even a need to exchange words. She'd had solutions for his problems before they came up.

Which meant--they didn't talk. There was no need to talk, and when he did very much _need_ to talk, it meant he didn't trust her. There wasn't ever any work in their relationship. It was just supposed to go on its own.

Five seconds of silence, and he needed to say something.

"I want it to be work," he said, and Aramis looked up at him, surprised. Athos squeezed his hand, surprised a little by the vehemency of his own feelings. "I want us to have to talk. I don't want us to just expect it to run smoothly. That's how things get derailed."

Aramis beamed at him, and Porthos twisted his head to fix Athos with a smile. "Look at you, giving us the talk."

Athos flushed warm, but they were smiling, so he didn't get too unsettled. "I may not know how to do it right," he said, "but I know all too well how it can go wrong. And I--" 

He stumbled there, but they were patient, and waited, and finally he managed to get out around the lump in his throat-- "I don't want us to go wrong. Not ever."

Aramis leaned in to kiss him, and Athos let the warmth wash over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me [on my blog.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, if anyone is inclined towards such things to support a broke writer, fencing team swag is now available??? [Details are on my blog,](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/post/124777045270/u-pro-o-stuffs) I love you all.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to the real world--slowly. (Friends, food, and making the most of one more night.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice long update for you all, to tide you over for a while as I divert attentions to my story for the next installment of InseparablesFest! As always, your support of this story means the absolute world.
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for mentions of an emotionally abusive relationship (Constance and Jacques, not our kids).

They ended up spending the rest of the afternoon in bed--clothed, for once, stretched out together and kissing. Athos kept an eye on the clock, trying not to get caught up. Being late to pick up Constance because they were making out was not even remotely within the bounds of acceptable.

It was easy to lose the time, though--God, so easy. Athos lay between Porthos and the wall, kissing Aramis over Porthos' chest while Porthos stroked his hair and kept an arm wrapped around Aramis. Aramis, lying halfway on top of Porthos, hummed at every touch, kissing Athos like he wanted to memorize every inch of his lips.

Athos was all too aware this might be the last day they'd have properly alone together for a while. He wanted to savor it, too. He wanted to enjoy being able to kiss them without worrying about who might knock on his door--he didn't want to think about the best ways to carefully disseminate the fact of their relationship to everyone, or if they were going to have to worry about a resident being uncomfortable. 

"We should have a hall meeting," Porthos said, when they'd noticed Athos' preoccupation and gently pressed him about it. "'Guess what, we're fucking.' We can tell them all the places on the hall we fucked over break."

"It would be easier to say where we _didn't_ fuck," Athos said, burying his face in Porthos' chest. 

Aramis pushed Athos' hair back, brushing gently at his cheek. "Any place we need to tick off before they start coming back?" he asked, the picture of innocence.

Athos lifted his head and shared a despairing look with Porthos.

They could never, Athos reflected about ten minutes later, when Aramis was blowing him on the roof of the building, tell this story to their grandchildren. For the obvious reasons, of course--Aramis moaning around his cock, sandwiched between Athos' legs and Porthos on his knees, with Porthos fucking between Aramis' thighs and jerking him off--but also because there would just...never be words for this perfect combination of illicit and comfortable, completely secure in each other (and secluded enough that really, the danger of being seen was minimal) and already trying to push each other to new heights, new heights, new heights...

They got in the car in perfect time, cleaned up and mouthwashed and ready to be good, supportive friends. Athos had a flash of awareness, as he climbed into his car, that this was how other people probably lived: just groomed on the surface, churning with desires and top-secret _we were just..._ once you got any deeper than surface.

He felt inexplicably better, with that thought.

"I can't believe she ran out on dinner," Porthos said, as they got on the highway. "That's not...Constance. At all."

"It must have been really bad," Aramis said, scooting forward in the backseat. He crossed his arms on the back of Porthos' seat, resting his chin on them. "She's devoted to the asshole, no matter how much of a dick he can be."

"So is he a dick or an asshole?" Porthos grinned at Aramis in the rearview. "Pick one." Aramis punched the back of the headrest with a grin of his own, and Athos shook his head, smiling.

"We probably shouldn't speculate," he said, as he changed lanes to angle for the Mass Pike. He could probably, he thought ruefully, navigate this highway in his sleep. "I'm sure it's something very normal and boring."

"You've _met_ Constance," Aramis reminded him. "She doesn't believe in boring."

"And Jacques is fucking boring," Porthos said. "Maybe that's why she finally snapped. Being there with his shitty family, realizing she's gonna sign her life away to a bunch of fucking WASPs."

"I mean, she's Episcopalian, so technically I think she's a WASP, too," Aramis said, but he reached around and hugged Porthos' chest to cut any sting out of his words. 

"Not in spirit," Athos disagreed. "Just like my family's French Catholic, but terrible in a way usually only WASPs can be."

Porthos snorted. "The point, y'all. The point--she might have finally realized that she doesn't want to be part of the family that could produce such a selfish asshat."

"I hope so." Aramis' voice was soft, pensive. Athos glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and Aramis and Porthos were both gazing out the windshield, their faces far away.

They all knew that was probably not what had happened.

"This is very maudlin and depressing," Athos said, and reached for the radio. "We probably don't want to be sad ourselves when we pick her up."

"Right," Porthos said, shaking himself. "Yeah, put on some music."

Aramis perked up immediately. "Ooh, give me the aux jack, I'll put on driving music." 

Athos smiled as Aramis and Porthos immediately fell into time-honored tradition, and started bickering over what to listen to. It was funny, really. The two of them loved each other desperately, and just as desperately hated 75% of each other's favorite music. Athos' own tastes overlapped fairly well with both of theirs, so he was usually Switzerland in these disputes--with veto power, since it was his car. But they both enjoyed the squabbling, Athos felt sure--at least, they were smiling the whole time, and there was a lot more pinching and kiss-dodging during this particular fight. 

They'd very nearly agreed on an album by the time they got off the highway. Their warm-hearted sniping over the music, though, was better music to Athos' ears than anything they could have come up with.

"Constance is going to want something calming, probably," he pointed out during a lull in the arguing (an attempted kiss on Aramis' part; Porthos was evading, rightly guessing Aramis was doing it to grab the jack out of his hand). "And we'll probably have her in about ten minutes, so maybe just wait for her." 

"It's the principle of the thing, Athos." Aramis drew back, considering, then leaned forward to press a kiss to the nape of Porthos' neck. Porthos jumped, ticklish, and when his arm flailed Aramis' hand shot forward to snatch the jack from him. "Ha- _ha!"_

"Fucking cheater," Porthos laughed, and twisted in his seat to aim for a kiss over the back.

Aramis honored his gallant loser with a brush of his lips over Porthos'. "And just for that, I promise I'll play some Adele for you."

"Oh, _thanks,_ " Porthos drawled, rolling his eyes, but Athos could see his little smile. Porthos rarely confessed to his enjoyment of Adele. He refused to listen to her regularly--because he still cried at "Someone Like You."

"Children, don't make me turn this car around," Athos said absently, craning his neck to see the sidewalk as they pulled up outside South Station. "Do you see her yet?"

"No." Porthos sat up straighter, and Aramis slid fully back into his seat, his smile fading as he looked closely out the window.

It was more crowded than Athos would have expected for it being so late on Thanksgiving Day. He didn't know how to feel about seeing all these travelers waiting for rides, for buses, out here--it made his bitter inner parts selfishly glad to see other people looking disgruntled and irritated today.

But at least they were here because someone--probably their families--wanted to see them. And they wanted to be here.

"She's down at the end," Porthos said, and Athos jolted out of his reverie. 

Aramis blew out his breath heavily. "Oh, darling."

When the Yukon in front of them moved, Athos could see her better. His chest clenched, and he spun the wheel, moving them closer.

Constance sat on one of the benches, her coat drawn tight around herself and her body drawn in even tighter. She had her little wheeled suitcase at her side, her purse slumped carelessly on the bench, and she sat staring fixedly at the ground. Her long red curls spread listless over her back and shoulders, and she didn't have a hat, and Athos wanted to punch Jacques Bonacieux in his smug, stinking face.

Athos braked, parked, and put on his hazards on autopilot. He didn't--couldn't--think too much about this, or he was going to get very angry and that wasn't going to be helpful at all. Constance was one of his best friends. She'd been his guardian angel, practically, through all their time in res life together, through their whole friendship. He was furious seeing her brought down, made sad and small and tearful, by as pathetic an excuse for a person as Jacques was.

Aramis had opened the back door and climbed out before Athos had gotten his emotions under control--almost before the car had stopped moving. Constance looked up sharply at the sound of her name. Her face crumpled in relief when she saw Aramis, and then Athos couldn't see her face anymore because Aramis was hugging her. She clutched at his arms, buried her face in his jacket, and though he was holding her gently, Athos could see the steely fury in Aramis' eyes.

Athos looked over at Porthos, and Porthos looked steadily back. They were both more than furious. Athos had never seen someone look as calm as Porthos did now--calm, with flat murder in his eyes.

"She needs to see us gentle," Athos reminded him--reminded himself, too.

Porthos gritted his teeth and blew out his breath, then nodded shortly. "Yeah, I know." He stared out the front window, mastering himself, and Athos reached over for his hand.

Porthos gripped it tightly, and Athos breathed, too. 

Then they climbed out and went to join the hug.

"Oh, stop," Constance's muffled, watery voice came from the depths of Aramis' shirt, when she felt Porthos and Athos wrap their arms around both her and Aramis. "It's fine, really."

"You don't have to say that," Porthos said, squeezing her tighter. "Really, _that's_ fine."

Constance gave a faint chuckle, and when she lifted her head they all stepped back. For some reason, Athos' arm refused to detach from her shoulders, and when she smiled timidly up at him, he smiled back. "Thanks for coming," she said quietly, reaching up to brush her hair back from her red-rimmed eyes.

Athos didn't purposefully catalog all the minute marks of stress on her face--it just happened. She'd been crying; there was a new line between her eyebrows that hadn't been there before; her hair was frizzed and dull, like she just couldn't be bothered to care in the same way she usually did. The circles under her eyes were the worst, and Athos drew her in for another hug, swallowing down the tightness in his throat (the self-recognition, the awful memory of looking in the mirror and seeing those same things, back in high school). "Of course," he said, just as quiet, "we came."

She held on to him, so tightly, and he heard a sniffle buried against his chest. 

Aramis caught his attention with a look, and twitched his head toward Constance's suitcase, then the car. Athos nodded, and as Porthos and Aramis went to get her things, steered her toward the car. "Do you want shotgun, or the back seat?"

"Back seat," she said, her voice subdued. "I'll take the middle, I don't mind." _I don't mind_ being Constance-speak for _I want this but feel like I'd be pushy if I asked,_ Athos knew, and motioned for Porthos to walk around, and Aramis to come here.

They sandwiched her between them, and Athos climbed back in the front. He didn't mind being alone; it felt a little odd, after having at least one of them close for so long, but. This was what she needed, right now. And he--he would have both of them in bed tonight. She'd be all on her own.

And even though Constance was like a sister to him, he was very... _aware_ of her, and of himself, in a way he wasn't normally. He felt like every glance between the three of them, every touch, was more noticeable, heavier. 

To be _with_ Aramis and Porthos, the three of them as a functioning, dating unit--in the presence of another person--felt very strange. Different, even though it was the same combination of people it had always been.

He glanced back in the rearview as they pulled out. Constance leaned against Porthos' shoulder, her face downcast, and Aramis sat as far over in his seat as he could, one of his arms hooked in hers. Aramis caught his eye and smiled encouragingly, and Athos could focus on the road a little easier, with that.

"It's nice to see you doing that again," Constance said, unexpectedly into the silence. "The telepathy thing."

Athos smiled despite himself. Aramis' embarrassed chuckle made him smile even wider. "We've...been practicing," Aramis said finally, self-deprecating enough to deflect a little, and Constance gave a single little laugh.

"I'm glad." She sniffed, snuggling further into Porthos' arms. "It's terrible when you three fight. This is--so much better."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. Athos dared a glance back, just to see the softness on his face. "Better in basically every way."

"Is it--I mean, are you official, then?" Constance looked carefully between the three of them, and Athos, checking the mirror, didn't miss the way everyone's eyes eventually landed on him.

"We'll tell the fencing team on Monday," Athos said, ruthlessly quashing down the nervous flip in his stomach. "I assume gossip will do the rest."

"An out poly trio doesn't come around every day," Porthos noted, mock-serious.

Aramis sniffed airily. "I like to think we do our part in enriching people's lives."

"Oh, please." Constance punched him in the thigh, but she was smiling for real, and Aramis grinned back at her. She blushed, ducking her head when she saw the brightness of his smile, and rested back against Porthos. "I'm fine," she said, almost too quiet for Athos to hear. "Really, I'm okay."

"I'm sure you are," Aramis said. "It takes a lot to knock you down."

"Yeah." Constance nodded, staring off into the middle distance. "Yeah, it does. It should."

The silence lay heavy for a moment, then Constance shook herself, and Porthos cleared his throat. "So, uh. Did you--I mean, are you hungry? Do you wanna stop somewhere?"

It was a good recovery from whatever he'd been about to say, which Athos was fairly certain was _did you finally dump him or what._ Athos could tell Porthos was kicking himself, from the slight knot between his brows he saw when he checked the mirror.

Constance's pause was a little too long. "I'm not hungry, no."

"But you didn't stay for dinner," Athos said, then gave his own self a mental kick for pushing it. "Never mind, it's--"

"No, you're right," Constance cut him off. "I didn't. I should, probably, eat, I just--I feel sick right now." Her voice was small, shyer than he was used to, and Athos bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from saying something _else_ he probably shouldn't.

"We've got some leftover rice and beans in the fridge," Aramis said, with the calm, placid, do-not-think-about-crossing-me tone of someone used to providing food in a crisis. "It's only from a day or so ago, it'll keep until you're ready."

"You cooked?" Her evident surprise was only a little bit of a dig to Athos' self-esteem, and he had to snort, shaking his head.

"Aramis cooked. Porthos and I made smart comments and distracted him."

"It was fun," Porthos said, a smile clear in his voice. 

Constance laughed, sounding a little bit hollow. "Oh, fun. In a relationship. I'd forgotten that was something that could happen."

Athos chewed his tongue. He glanced back in the mirror to see how the other two were handling it, and both Porthos and Aramis looked like they were focusing all their willpower on not saying anything.

"We fought about New York again," Constance said abruptly. "He'd been telling his grandparents, his whole family, that I was moving in with him there in December." Her anger was still simmering close to the surface, her voice shaking a little, and Athos silently willed her to let it boil over. "I said no," she went on, "I don't want to. He told me I didn't know what I wanted, and every little fight we've been trying not to have just happened all at once."

"I know that feeling," Aramis said softly. Athos did, too, and his throat seized up just thinking about it.

They were stopped at a light, so Athos let himself glance back. He reached wordlessly over to brush Aramis' knee, and Aramis smiled at him. 

"I couldn't stay after that," Constance sighed. "Some of the things he said, they were so..." She trailed off, her throat sounding tight suddenly, and Athos' own heart thumped painfully once against his ribs.

"You don't need to tell us," he said. He wished he could look back, but the light had changed and the turnpike was coming up. "You really don't. Not if you don't want to."

She didn't answer at first. Or at second, for that matter--she didn't answer at all until they were on the turnpike, the wind whistling loud through the broken front window. And then, under the sound of the breeze, he heard her say, very quietly, "I'm not worthless."

Athos' stomach dropped.

"No, you're not," Aramis said, and put his arm around her. Porthos had gone stiff, but as Aramis moved it jarred him back into thought, and he pulled them both close. 

"You're not," Porthos said. 

Constance nodded, silent, and pressed closer into them.

Athos didn't know if he was glad or worried that Constance didn't want to talk about it very much. That was what everyone always said you were supposed to do, wasn't it? But--

She'd said enough, really, and they all already knew how Jacques fought. Dirty, below the belt, and with a firm conviction that _he_ was the victim.

Athos swallowed down another shiver of memory and focused on the road. 

Abruptly, Constance laughed. "I'm sorry. You're in this lovely new relationship, and I'm dumping all this awful shit on you."

"Hush," Aramis said, the perfect mix of gentle and exasperated. "You're our friend, and we love you."

Porthos nudged the back of Athos' seat with his foot. "That's it, we're stopping somewhere. Hunger's fucking with her head."

The bluntness of it startled Athos into a laugh. "Fine," he said, flicking his gaze to the exit numbers. "Ideas?"

When there was nothing but sharp silence from the back, he glanced in the mirror to see Constance staring. Aramis and Porthos shared a grin on either side of her.

"Yes?" Athos said, not sure what he'd done. "I didn't mean to make fun--"

"You laughed," Constance said. She was still staring at him. 

The back of his neck flushed hot, and Athos opened his mouth--closed it. "Oh," he said, not sure how else to answer. There wasn't really a good way to admit, _yes, I was fairly fucking miserable to be around before I started getting my brain sucked out through my dick on a daily basis._

Aramis saved him. "Yes, it's a nice sound," he agreed. 

Athos swallowed, smiled. "I seem to be making it a lot more lately," he said, his voice far too quiet to pretend there wasn't an enormous depth of feeling there. 

He could sense Porthos' eyes on him, even with his own gaze firmly on the road, and he knew whatever was about to come out of Porthos' mouth was going to break him. He didn't have long to wait.

"Thought I was dreaming the first time I heard it," Porthos said softly.

And that was all. Quiet, simple, and enough to make Athos fix his eyes on the road and chew his lip with how badly he wanted to touch Porthos just now.

He hadn't had to repress that impulse all week. It ached, a little, to have to do it now. Athos hadn't been a publicly demonstrative person in years. He hadn't realized he remembered how to be.

But, he reminded himself forcibly, he couldn't do it now. The angle was all wrong, he'd twist his shoulder out instead of driving--and anyway they didn't need to be rubbing it in in front of Constance. 

"I'll try to get back in the habit, then," he said, in lieu of anything more emotional. Aramis hummed softly, and Porthos' leg pressed against the back of his seat and stayed.

"I can't believe the change in you three," Constance said, her voice hushed.

Aramis was unable to keep his smile from his voice. "It's been quite the week."

"Especially you," Constance said, and Athos saw her kick Aramis' leg in the mirror. "Does this mean you won't be crashing on my floor again this week?"

Aramis laughed a little awkwardly, brushing a hand through his hair. "Yes, well. I did need a little bit of a--kick in the ass."

The innuendo was in Athos' head and out his mouth faster than he could censor it. "Oh, is that what we're calling it these days?" 

Porthos' burst of laughter drowned out Athos' snort. "That was _not_ a euphemism, you ass," Aramis laughed, kicking across at the armrest of the driver's seat. Athos felt himself grinning viciously, and didn't try to stop it.

"Oh, my God," Constance groaned, "he's not just laughing, he's making sex jokes. You've--brainwashed him, or body-swapped him, or something."

"I could, but I promise I'm not gonna make a sex joke out of brainwashing or body-swapping," Porthos said, mock-serious, and Aramis kicked _him._

"Would you both be sensitive for half a second?"

"It's fine," Constance said, and Athos could hear her smiling, too. "It's...it's been ages since Jacques made me laugh."

Athos didn't know how to answer that. 

Luckily, Aramis and Porthos did, and Constance sighed out a little huff when they wrapped her up in a smothering hug. "Oh, honestly, you two," she sniffed, but she burrowed down into the hug all the same and let them hold her. 

Athos smiled, kept his mouth shut, and drove.

They stopped at the burrito place in town on their way back to school, and Constance didn't protest when Aramis steered them to the TV room on the ground floor instead of up to the elevators. They ate in a small huddle on one couch, with Constance comfortably encircled in their midst, and let the television play whatever it wanted. 

"There's something so soothing about home renovation shows," Aramis said through a mouthful of burrito. "You always know it's going to end well, or they wouldn't have aired the episode."

"This aspirational bullshit," Porthos said, flicking a piece of rice at the television. "Who needs a remote for a ceiling fan? Is it so hard to flip the switch?"

"It's luxury, Porthos," Aramis said. He sat on the ground, leaning against their legs, and he rested his head on Porthos' knee. "That's the whole point."

Porthos' hand landed in Aramis' hair, even as he snorted derisively. "I don't care how rich I get, I'm never gonna be too rich to pull the ceiling fan cord."

"The ceilings get too high," Athos said, glaring at the television. "Ceiling height goes up accordingly with tax bracket."

Constance laughed out loud, and Athos felt himself relax as she did. She wasn't telling them much more, and Athos wasn't going to push her; his job right now was to be the friend who was there for her, to make her smile, and let her tell them when she was ready. 

Still. It was--strange. To be the one cheering someone else up, instead of the one needing the cheering. And it was even stranger to be the person in the happy relationship, constantly checking himself to see if he was rubbing things in too much. There would be moments--like now, with Aramis leaning on Porthos and Porthos stroking his hair, like he didn't even realize he was doing it--when Athos worried they were hurting Constance's feelings. 

He was fairly sure that Jacques was not the cuddling type.

But she didn't say anything, and they weren't--holding hands or kissing, or being too overtly couple-y. Or rather, triad-y. Athos felt like they were finally being themselves again, after these long weeks of terrible distance, and Constance seemed at ease. At least, she wasn't shifting awkwardly, or pulling in on herself the way Athos knew he would, were he in her place. 

He was glad she seemed all right with it. Because, honestly, he didn't know if they _could_ stop. Touching each other, holding on. It was all so new, still, so fresh and easy to fall into. He didn't _want_ to have to stop.

But it was good, he supposed, that it had to happen tonight. Give them a little time to rehearse being functional people again, to remember how people who at least pretended at being adults could behave in public. If they made a few slips in front of Constance, she knew them well enough to forgive. 

But they were trying, hard. They were being good. They hadn't kissed, any of them, for at least two and a half hours. Athos wasn't sure how Aramis wasn't spontaneously bursting into flames. 

Hell, _he_ was going to burst into flames, if this kept up too long. He needed to _touch_ so badly.

He hadn't counted on Constance's perceptiveness, though. As the episode they were watching hit the credits, Constance stretched and yawned. "I think," she said, "that I'm going to try and go to sleep." Athos didn't miss the way her eyes stuck for a second on Porthos' hand in Aramis' hair. "Let you all get back to whatever you were doing."

Athos knew his face had to be grateful, from the smile she gave him when he looked at her. "Are you sure?" he asked, though, because he had to at least give the _impression_ that he didn't want to run off and fuck his boyfriends immediately. He _did_ want to be sure she was okay, but--

Constance nodded. She looked so tired, and he ached for her--he knew the feeling of really, truly thinking he'd spend his life with someone (multiple someones, now), and it was so hard when that shattered. "Yeah," she said, her voice softer. "Yeah, I think I need some time alone."

That, he was more than happy to give her.

They said goodnight, Porthos leaned over to kiss her forehead, and Athos walked her to the door.

He didn't go straight back to the couch; he turned off the TV, got their trash off the table, rearranged the room to how they found it. He spent maybe thirty seconds carefully and determinedly cleaning up burrito detritus, doing his best not to think very boring and nonsexual thoughts, before he heard a faint sound from the couch behind him.

When he tilted his head to look, Porthos had pulled Aramis up onto the couch with them, and they were kissing, slow and languid. Aramis' sigh had drawn his attention--Aramis looked blissed-out beyond belief, nestled against Porthos, and Porthos' face was easy for the first time all day, finding his calm in Aramis.

"Barely a minute, you two, seriously?" he said, but he didn't mean it in any way other than desperately fond, and they knew it. 

Porthos glanced up at him, his smile tired, and he shrugged. "Needed to get rid of some tension. Come here?"

Athos was physically incapable of doing anything but moving into Porthos' arms when he heard those words. So he found himself on the couch, too, a moment later, pressing up against Porthos' back and wrapping his arms around both of them. "It has been," he agreed, resting his head on Porthos' shoulder, "a rather tense afternoon."

"Trying not to swear and rant," Aramis agreed, a dark irritation in his voice even as he nuzzled at Porthos' cheek.

Porthos' grunt of agreement made Athos smile. "That little fuck better not show his face around here again," Porthos muttered darkly, and Athos kissed his neck to soothe him.

"Poor Constance," Aramis sighed, leaning into Porthos. "I can't believed she's lived with that for so long, it's..."

"Sobering," Athos said, without really meaning to. The reminder of all the bad places a relationship could go. 

They both looked at him, Porthos clearly a little stricken, and Athos winced, looking away to gather his thoughts. "That--I didn't mean...I'm happy," he said clumsily, hoping he hadn't just ruined things.

"I know you are," Porthos said gently, though his voice was a little hesitant, and Athos reached for his hand and gripped it.

"I know what you meant," Aramis sighed, and swung his legs over the side of the couch. "Let's go to bed."

Athos nodded silently, and together they headed back upstairs. Escaping back up to their floor was a relief--someplace safe, theirs, and Athos saw both Aramis and Porthos' shoulders droop in relief as the door clicked shut behind them. Without needing to say it, they all went for their pajama pants and relaxing clothes, stripping off shirts and jeans in a silent hurry.

"Bed?" Porthos suggested, looking between them, and he looked like he needed it so badly that Athos moved to him first, before even thinking about the bed.

They kissed, and Aramis drew them down. And then the three of them were settled comfortably all together, Athos lying half on Porthos' chest, and Aramis tucked up behind him, and Athos finally felt some equilibrium come back.

"I feel like such an ass," Athos said, pressing his face into Porthos' shirt. He felt so guilty. He couldn't help it. "But I'm--I'm glad."

"Glad we're not them?" Porthos sighed, curling his arms more around Athos' back. "Yeah." He blew out his breath. "I know what you mean."

"We can be grateful for our own relationship," Aramis said diplomatically, spooning Athos and running his hands up under the hem of his shirt. "Grateful for what we have, and glad that none of us are inclined toward manipulation, lying, or being a fucking asshole."

"Yes." Athos sighed, rubbing his cheek against Porthos' shirt. "I am glad about that."

Both Aramis and Porthos seemed to understand the meaning layered under that. Aramis sighed and pressed closer, his hands settling along Athos' ribs, and Porthos reached out and hooked his arm around Aramis, too. 

"I never wanna give this up," Porthos sighed. "Every night. Can we do this every night?"

Athos pressed even closer, too comfortable to even think about lying. "I want to." 

"I think it'd be a nice thing to do, actually," Aramis said. He pressed his lips to the back of Athos' neck, mouthing gently at it. "Set aside some time every day to just...be together. I think bedtime is nice."

"Mhmm." Athos' whole body was starting to flush warm under Aramis' touch, held between the two of them like he was.

"Cuddle a little." Porthos hummed happily. "Talk about the day." He let out a contented sigh, pulling them both closer. "It'll be good to have time."

Aramis nodded. "Keep some of this week with us. Carry it forward."

"Mmm." Athos didn't trust himself to speak. His cock was starting to get ideas, and he didn't want to ruin the moment.

"It doesn't always have to be sex, either," Aramis said, his breath so hot on Athos' neck, his hands pressing gently against Athos' chest. 

Athos bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut, and nodded. He tried very hard to think about anything, absolutely anything else besides sex, besides the way they felt against him--

"Though, since it feels like Athos is shaking like he's gonna explode," Porthos said, the smile in his voice loud and clear, "no reason it shouldn't be, tonight."

Athos blew out his breath in a rush. "Oh, thank f-- _fuck_ \--" Aramis' hands slipped abruptly down, cupping his erection through his pajama pants, and he couldn't stop the buck of his hips into the touch.

"Yeah," Porthos said, his voice thick and satisfied, and he slid his hand into Athos' hair, pulling him up into a kiss. Athos opened up without thinking--it felt so good, and he already felt drunk, gone under so much faster than he'd expected to.

It wasn't the last night they were going to have, ever. Athos knew that. Rationally, he also knew that they'd probably still have tomorrow mostly for themselves--just them and Constance, before people presumably started drifting back in the evening, and coming back proper on Saturday. But it was the end of _their_ week--the end of the first week, of the alone time, of never having to leave their sides if he didn't want to--and--

He didn't want it to end. He didn't want to go back to the world. He wanted nothing but this, forever. Vaguely, some part of him knew that wasn't rational, or healthy--that was him and Anne, and he didn't want that again, not at all. But he could trust the both of them not to want only that, too--they both knew how to live normal lives, they wouldn't consume him utterly. 

They'd make him live, too.

"It's our last night alone," Aramis said against his back. One hand moved slowly back and forth over Athos' rapidly stiffening cock; the other slid up to his chest, stroking over his collarbones under his shirt. "I want to make the most of it, myself."

Porthos hummed his assent against Athos' lips. Athos made some sound, probably closer to a whimper than anything, and Porthos' lips parted in a huff of laughter. Athos couldn't stop himself from licking into his mouth, then, desperate suddenly for everything he could have--and Porthos tightened his grip, pulled Athos closer and took control of their kiss.

Fuck, Athos thought dazedly, he was _gone,_ he was under, he couldn't even control the noises he was making as Porthos kissed him and Aramis started to touch him. He was drunk on them already, needing this last night so badly he could barely breathe.

"Are you okay?" Aramis murmured, and nipped gently at the knobs of his spine. "Is it too much?"

"No," he gasped, reaching for both of them, holding on as tight as he could. "Not too much, not--not really okay either--" He sucked in a breath, trying to hold on. "I just--I'm thinking too much, can we--?"

"We'll do everything you want to," Aramis said. His lips moved restlessly over Athos' neck, like he just couldn't help himself. "We love you so much, we won't let you fall, we've got you."

Athos believed him without reservation. He lifted his face up, seeking Porthos' lips, and let his body take over. He moaned when Porthos kissed him, sighed when Aramis latched onto his shoulder and sucked a fervent mark there.

"What do you want to do?" Porthos said softly against his skin, nuzzling at Athos' cheek. "What can we do, how can we make you feel good? You've done so much today, you've reached out so much, what can we do?"

Athos' head was swimming with possibilities--with so many things he wanted from both of them. He wanted them to never stop touching him. He wanted them to feel good, to feel as strong and as valued as they'd made him feel all this week. He wanted them to catch him as he fell.

He didn't want to think anymore, he just wanted to _do_ , and with all that in his head, he found himself with a ready answer.

"I want to go down on Aramis," he said, and relished the startled moan that coaxed from Aramis behind him. "And I want you to do that thigh-fucking thing you've been doing, only to me."

Porthos stared at him, and Athos felt Porthos' chest rise and fall, once, against his. Aramis' teeth sank into his neck, and Athos shivered and went loose.

Then Porthos was kissing him like he wanted to taste Athos' _soul_ , sprawling Athos onto his back and pinning him down and kissing him some more--then leaning back so Aramis could take his place and bite at his lips and lick into his mouth and moan like Athos had _punched_ him with what he'd said.

Athos gave in to it completely. He rolled with them, arched his body against them and relished the feel of Porthos' hands on his shoulder, Aramis' weight holding his hips down. He was warm all over with how much they wanted him, with how the simple truth of what he wanted had done so much to them. 

"You're amazing," Aramis said, his voice almost broken when he pulled away at last. "You're incredible, you really are, Athos, you're perfect--" His hands skated around the edges of Athos' face, pushed his hair back--and traced his lips, gentle, almost reverent. "God, really, you want to?"

Athos nodded, his eyelids heavy, and Aramis and Porthos stared down at him like he was precious. With a smile, Athos opened his mouth and caught Aramis' fingertips in his mouth, bit gently at the pads and licked the salt from them, and--oh, fuck, that was his own taste, wasn't it? Aramis had been touching him--

He groaned at the thought, sucked Aramis' fingers harder, and didn't have time to be embarrassed or ashamed at how fucking _dirty_ that was before Aramis and Porthos' faces both went hotter and their eyes went darker, and then Athos was being manhandled again.

"I know we still haven't, um," Aramis gasped, half-crawling into Athos' lap, because somehow now Athos was sprawled with his back against Porthos' chest, gasping as his neck was bitten and hair was nuzzled-- "We still haven't run down all the kinky stuff because I have a feeling that would freak you both out, but _shit_ , Athos, that was ridiculously hot--"

"You're seriously the hottest fucking thing when you're not even trying to be," Porthos rumbled in his ear, his teeth closing on Athos' earlobe, and Athos shuddered, arched, didn't try to fight it. He wasn't going to hold back tonight. He know they didn't believe that he owed them anything, that he needed to do anything more than just _be_ for them, but--

He thought they deserved nothing less than his all, so he would give that.

It just so happened that tonight his "all" was a shivering, needy mess who just wanted to be manhandled and used.

That was possibly, he realized dimly, part of the _kinky stuff_ they weren't discussing yet.

For some reason, the thought made him smile, and when Aramis moaned and kissed him again, like he just couldn't help it, he smiled even wider, slumped back against Porthos and let himself be held up, kissed, touched. It felt like he was watching them both go wild for him from somewhere outside his body--he loved this. He wanted to keep being this for them, for as long as he could.

"Athos," and then he came back, to realize Porthos sounded like he'd said his name more than once. "Babe, you with us?"

"I have no idea," he said, and his smile felt like it was going to split his face in two. He let his head roll back against Porthos' shoulder, feeling the warmth of their bodies all against him, and let his eyes fall shut. "It feels incredible, though, don't stop."

"You looked like you were thinking some deep thoughts," Aramis murmured, and Athos felt him press close, run his lips over Athos' collarbone, bite gently. "Share with the class?"

"Kinky stuff," Athos said without thinking, and Porthos laughed softly against his neck. Aramis hummed curiously, and Athos opened his heavy eyes to look down at Aramis. "I want to do both of those things tonight because I just want you both to put me where you want me."

Aramis stilled, looking up at him, and he felt Porthos' arms tighten around his shoulders.

Athos reached up for Aramis' face, twisted his head so he could see Porthos, too. "I'm going to be thinking too much again in about twenty-four hours," he said, and it was so easy, too easy to be like this with them. He felt so safe. He felt like he could _talk._ "I don't want to think at all tonight. I just want to make you both feel good."

"Oh, love," Aramis said softly, flattening his palm against Athos' chest.

"You already make us do that," Porthos said, and he kissed Athos' cheek with so much care in his eyes. "But if you want--if you want us to be in control, we can do that, too."

Athos blinked. He did, he supposed. That was what it boiled down to, wasn't it?

"Yes," he said, leaning into Porthos. "Yes, I want that."

Aramis let out a deep, heartfelt groan. "I've never been more glad I'm a switch in my life," he swore, and leaned in for another deep, heartfelt kiss.

Porthos laughed out loud, and Athos had to smile into their kiss. He couldn't stop smiling. Already, just having given the decisions over to them, he was feeling so much lighter, so much less tense. He didn't have to think. He could just--give.

"Okay," Aramis said when they broke apart, his fingers skating over Athos' face and cheeks and throat. "Which do you want, what first?"

Athos blinked at him. His mind was already drifting, and it took him a moment to parse what Aramis meant.

Then, he was even more confused.

"Not all at once?" he asked, and Porthos actually shook this time when he groaned against Athos' shoulder. 

"Fuck," he said, almost plaintive, "babe, you _can't_ just-- _fuck--_ " Athos twisted to find him--kiss, soothe, something--and Porthos caught his face, kissed him with a fervency that made Athos' head spin. 

"Porthos, he's going to ruin us," Aramis half-laughed, sounding overwhelmed. "Possibly forever." 

"You've both already ruined me," Porthos murmured against Athos' lips, and Athos felt himself flush hot under the _tenderness_ in Porthos' eyes when they broke away. "I dunno when I got this lucky, but I sure as shit ain't gonna waste it." 

"Porthos," Athos said softly, because he couldn't help himself, and Porthos leaned in with a soft sound to kiss him again. 

"Okay," Porthos said, when that kiss dissolved into more smiling and nuzzling than kissing. "Aramis, do you wanna--" 

"Yes, here," Aramis said immediately, sliding up to the head of the bed. "Athos, would you--scoot up here, darling, that's it--"

Athos went easily into Aramis' arms, following him down into the mess of the pillows and sheets. Aramis drew him close for an eager kiss, and Athos let his body sprawl loose on top of Aramis'. Aramis groaned, went slack and easy in response, and Athos pressed close against him, eager for everything.

"You look so fucking good together," Porthos said, his voice like gravel rattling down Athos' spine, and the heat of his hands landed on Athos' sides, stroking up and down, over and over from his waist to his hips to his thighs. Grounding him, gentling him. "I wanna see you both just like this forever."

Aramis pulled back from their kiss to look up at Porthos, and he was--beaming, smiling so bright and wide and happy, just looking at Porthos like he was the world. Athos leaned in to kiss the corner of his smile, giving in to his sleepy, hazy need to--he couldn't quite believe it--nuzzle at Aramis' face. 

"He likes your smile," Porthos said quietly to Aramis, like a secret, warm and fond, and Aramis' smile widened under Athos' lips. "Can't blame him. Best smile in the world."

"Lies," Aramis said, "I'm looking at it," and Porthos' startled, shy laugh made Athos hum, squirm a little in his grip. He loved that sound. He wanted Porthos to always make that sound.

Porthos' hands tightened in response, and Athos shivered, settling heavy on Aramis again. "Porthos."

"I got you," Porthos said again, and Athos knew he did. "And I think I want you naked now."

"Yes," Athos said, because he could definitely speak up for that, and he let Porthos tug him up onto his haunches so they could strip off his shirt. Aramis hadn't been wearing a shirt, but he took the opportunity to wriggle out of the loose pants he slept in, and Athos barely waited for Porthos to finish pulling Athos' t-shirt from his wrists before he fell forward back into Aramis and all that naked skin.

"Shit," Aramis half-laughed, almost a gasp, arching up as Athos mouthed at the jut of his hipbones. "A- _Athos--"_

Athos rubbed his cheek against the length of Aramis' erection, heavy and straining against the hip-cut fabric of his briefs. He sighed, breath gusting out heavy through his mouth, and Aramis swore again and jerked up into him. Athos felt Aramis' cock twitch through the fabric, and he let out another rough breath, turning his face to run his mouth over the line of it. He wanted it so badly, he couldn't think straight. He hadn't tasted Aramis like this yet. It was inexcusable, really, that he'd gone almost a whole week and hadn't--

He groaned, lost already to the heat and the scent of _Aramis_ , and Aramis' fingers twined in his hair, clinging tight. The fabric was already drawn tight and damp, and Athos ran his tongue over the soaked spots, flushing with his own pleasure at Aramis' moan.

"Porthos, hurry up," Aramis said, his voice tighter and rougher than a moment ago. "Athos, I need--love, would you just, slow down just a second--"

Athos lifted his head, looking up at Aramis through half-lidded eyes, and Aramis let out a tiny sound, cradling Athos' head in his hands. "That's right, just--just one second, while Porthos gets the rest of your--Porthos?"

"Sit up, babe," Porthos said in his ear, hands warm at his waist, and Athos understood. He straightened, shifting his hips back so Porthos could strip him the rest of the way, and grinned despite himself when he was naked in their arms. 

"You, too," he said, leaning into Porthos, because Porthos was perfect and Athos needed to just be wrapped in him, and Porthos' laugh was a gravel, wanting thing.

"Yeah, me, too." He nudged Athos back down toward Aramis. "In a sec, let me get the lube, and then I'll be all naked doing what you want."

Lube. Right. They'd need that. 

"Christ," Aramis ground out when Athos shuddered, pressed all against him. "Was that good or bad?"

"Good," Athos managed to say, mouthing at Aramis' chest when Aramis drew him back down. "Good, good, I want it. Want you."

"I want you, too," Aramis breathed, holding Athos' head in his hands, his body rolling up against Athos'. "So much."

"Here," and then Porthos was there again, touching him again, and Athos sighed out in relief. "Shift back up, babe, you want--hands and knees?"

Athos' shattered groan made Aramis hiss and buck up into him, and Athos nodded desperately--only to groan again, even louder, when Porthos just pulled him up by the hips and set him on his knees.

"Hope that's okay," Porthos almost laughed, his voice raw around the edges, "you've just--seemed to like it a lot so far, so--"

Athos let out the most undignified sound he ever had in his life, something like a whine and a sob and as much of a _yes god yes use me put me where you want_ moan as he could manage, and his skin tingled all over with the sounds Porthos and Aramis made in response.

"You are too fucking much, babe," Porthos groaned, and Athos shivered and pressed into the kiss Porthos dropped to the base of his spine--then groaned himself when Aramis' hands in his hair drew him gently back close. 

"I've never seen you so responsive," Aramis marveled, his voice like smoke and honey as he rubbed his fingertips over Athos' scalp, and Athos wasn't even trying anymore, just let his jaw hang slack as he panted for them. "You really like this, don't you?"

Athos nodded, happy and floating and dazed with how good it all felt. He didn't have to make any decisions, didn't have to do anything but let them know how much he was enjoying it. 

Aramis' eyes focused on something over his shoulder, then, and Athos watched his gaze darken, his smile heat. "And so do you, hmm?"

Porthos laughed behind him, and Athos looked over to see Porthos kneeling naked on the bed behind him, flushed and hard and looking at them both like they were the most delicious thing he'd ever seen. "I like it," Porthos said, grinning at them. "You know I like this part."

Yes, he did. Porthos liked taking care of them both--and Athos remembered, then, the way Porthos' hands had steadied the more he cared for Athos, on Halloween when it was just them and they'd gone to bed so broken. Porthos did like this. It made Porthos centered, easy. 

Not just the sex, the dominance. The care.

"Porthos," Athos said, because it was the only word in his head at that, and Porthos grinned at him, stroking down his sides and hips with tight, possessive hands. 

"Right here," Porthos said, and he did look happy, he looked as happy and aroused and _wanting_ as Athos felt, his eyes raking as possessive as his hands over the two of them. "Whenever you want me."

Athos closed his eyes, pressed his face to Aramis' stomach. "Now. Now. _Now._ "

Aramis moaned softly, Porthos echoed him, and Athos shifted, mouthed at Aramis' cock through his briefs again. 

"Both of us, you said?" Aramis said, unevenly, and Athos hummed and nodded as one of Aramis' hands left his face, and he felt the fabric beneath his cheek start to shift.

"Yes," Athos got out, clinging to the shreds of his self-control for this part, as Aramis stripped beneath him and Porthos waited behind him. He had a feeling they needed his words for this.

And he was right, because even as Porthos' fingers flexed on his skin, Porthos asked, low, "Would you tell us?"

Athos took a deep breath, pulling the scattered mess of his thoughts together. "I am going to suck Aramis off, and you are going to work your cock between my thighs, and it'll be messy and hot and I'll go away completely in my head and probably come harder than I ever have in my life. Is that enough consent for you?"

God, it felt good to say that. To give himself up in a way he'd never _trusted_ enough for. 

Porthos and Aramis' shocked silences pressed on his eardrums, but for once, it didn't make him worry.

Athos grinned against Aramis' thigh, and licked his lips. "Gentlemen?"

"He's definitely ruining us, Porthos," Aramis said, and Athos felt Aramis' cock twitch against his jaw. "I may not survive."

Porthos laughed, low and almost reverent, and Athos arched into the stroke of his hands. "What a fucking way to go, though. Athos?"

Athos closed his eyes, shifted back so he could run his lips along the length of Aramis' cock. "Porthos?"

"Spread your legs a little."

And just like that, Athos' thoughts evaporated from his head. Spreading his legs for Porthos--oh. _Oh,_ fuck.

He dropped straight back down to the place he'd been when they were stripping him, and this time he didn't have to come up. Aramis tugged on his hair, guiding his open mouth to the head of Aramis' cock, and as he licked out over it, Porthos' hand--slick already with slippery lubricant, Christ, _Christ_ \--stroked over the inside of his thighs, his balls, his cock. 

And it was easy, then, to close his lips around Aramis' head and start to move, to just do what he'd been wanting to do for far longer than he'd been able to admit to himself. To hear Aramis gasp his name and satisfy the deepest part of him that still couldn't believe Aramis wanted them.

Wanted him.

Athos knew that sex was not the ultimate expression of love. He knew that all too well. But he'd never really realized how this intimacy, this surrender, tied so much into the love he felt for them both. 

He'd never gone under like this before--and this was purely Aramis and Porthos, the way they cared for him, the way they gave him ground to stand on and held him up.

Five straight days of fucking and talking and being closer than he'd ever had anyone before, and they kept finding new, tender places of his--and instead of stabbing him in them, the way so many other fucking people did--they curled themselves around them and kept them safe. 

He moaned, low and open around Aramis' cock, and twisted his hands in the sheets, and arched back, up, spreading himself for Porthos. He wanted this so badly.

"You're the most beautiful fucking thing," Porthos said, his hand sliding back and forth over Athos' cock. The steady, gentle care in his voice made Athos sigh. "You are so fucking perfect for us, but, babe, that's an offer for another time."

Athos was too far under to realize, for a moment, and then Aramis' low groan of lust, the throb of his cock in Athos' mouth, made him aware that Porthos had referenced something heavier, something more--

Oh. It was a curiously peaceful realization, as far in his head as he was.

He was spreading his legs like he wanted Porthos inside him, and not just between his thighs. 

And this deep in his mind, it was very easy to admit that--yes, that was very, very much what he wanted. 

God, he wanted.

But it was not what he'd asked them for this time, and he was too far down for them to let him change his mind. 

He saw all this in an instant, realizations coming so much more easily, gently, like this. There wasn't any friction from the rough edges of his psyche; he was deep enough that all that couldn't touch him. They were taking care of him. And right now, they were keeping him safe.

He drew his legs together, only the faintest pang of regret weighing his chest, and let his senses float.

Aramis' taste, smell, sighs. Touch, fingers in his hair and skin all around Athos. Porthos' heat, touch--ohh, the heat and hardness of him, sliding between skin Athos had never _known_ could be that sensitive. And the rhythm of it was enough, the rhythm of both of them pushing into him, enough to make him feel like he _was_ being fucked in all the ways he wanted...

Even when he thought about it later, with a clear head, he still couldn't quite piece together the exact order their climaxes all happened. He had a feeling that Aramis came first, and that the taste of him, the way his cock pulsed against Athos' tongue, sent him over the edge himself. But the feeling of Porthos coming hit him so hard, too--it couldn't have been long enough for him to recover from the first, if there had been a first.

What it felt like--though it was far beyond the realms of Athos' prior sexual experiences--was that he just didn't stop coming, between Aramis' orgasm and Porthos'. Or even after. Because he was definitely still twitching and shuddering, gasping softly and feeling his body light up in random patches of ecstasy, when he was aware of himself again and knew where his body was. 

His head rested on Porthos' chest, his back tucked safely against Aramis' front, and he didn't have to open his eyes or move at all to know Aramis and Porthos' heads were together on the pillow above him. They both were holding him, they were talking quietly to him, to each other, and that was all he needed.

"...think he'd ever get like this," Porthos was saying softly, his fingers brushing back and forth in Athos' hair.

"I dropped hard my first time, too," Aramis said, and Athos closed his eyes and imagined their faces, close and secret on the pillowcase. "When you've never been able to let part of yourself be free, and then all at once you can..."

"Yeah. You think he's still...?"

"Don't know." Aramis laughed softly. "What he might definitely be is asleep."

"Feels like it," Porthos chuckled, and Athos' chest glowed warm to think that he was the source of that. "He's so relaxed, I think he must be."

"You were wonderful," Aramis said then, his voice so quiet, so very gentle.

Porthos laughed nervously, a little awkward. "Nah, it was--I should have asked, before, if he wanted...all that."

"You didn't want to rush him." Aramis shifted, moving closer to Porthos like he couldn't help it. "And you stayed in the boundaries we'd set, you didn't try to re-negotiate in the moment. That takes--" Porthos made a soft sound, shifted under Athos' head, and Aramis clicked his tongue impatiently, drew him back. "That takes a good Dom."

Even drowsy and distant as he was, Athos could sense the stress Aramis put on the word--and felt a tension ease in Porthos' body. "Yeah?" Porthos said, hopeful through his nerves. 

"God above, Porthos, fucking yes, I was here the whole time. I wasn't just losing my mind over Athos. You looked incredible, your whole attitude was..." Athos felt him shiver. "Have you done this before?"

"No." Porthos sounded...shy. Athos relaxed even more against him, loving it, and Porthos' hand stroked idly through his hair. "No, I haven't, but--I. The _second_ I figured it was something I might want, and--and who I might want it with, God bless the fucking Internet because I started reading every legit thing I could get my hands on. Even in my fantasies, I couldn't hurt either one of you."

Aramis' purr of approval vibrated down Athos' neck, and Athos sighed in contentment. Porthos. Their beautiful, brave Porthos. "Of course you did your research," he hummed, his voice so thick with affection. "And I'm going to kiss you for saying we were both there from the start of your kinky, kinky fantasies."

Porthos laughed, the sound slightly muffled in a way Athos knew was lips, Aramis' sugar-fire lips and his gentle touch. "Yeah," he said when he could speak again. "Wanted to know how to take care of you, before I even knew you might want it--I thought I'd have to talk you into it, if you can believe that--"

Aramis laughed out loud, then hastily stifled it, pressing a careful hand to Athos' hair--afraid of waking him. He was so calm, so still, they both had to think he was asleep. They'd both never seen him this relaxed awake, he thought, smiling inside.

"I can't believe you like it," Porthos said softly. "I can't believe _he_ likes it so much, shit."

Aramis was quiet, and Athos heard fabric rustle above him. He wondered if Aramis was moving closer to Porthos, pressing their foreheads together. 

"I can," Aramis said finally, so quiet Athos could barely hear him. "The more we go, the farther we get--the more I think God made us for each other."

Oh, Aramis. _Aramis._ Athos chest tightened and flooded hot with so much affection, so much love.

Aramis laughed, a little awkwardly. "Is that as ridiculous as I feel like it sounded?"

"It's not," Porthos said, and Athos heard the soft sound of lips meeting. "It's not at all."

"Every day, I feel it more and more," Aramis whispered, his heart beating in his voice.

"Aramis." Porthos shifted, his hand leaving Athos' hair, and Athos could imagine that hand curling on Aramis' jaw, cupping his face and holding him close. "Every day, you give me a new way to fall in love with you."

"I love you so much." Aramis' voice broke, and Athos felt them press closer together above his head, heard them kiss.

Athos fell asleep to the sound of them talking, drifting on their words and touches and gentle assurances of love. Soft, tender dreams followed, easy and hazy, a long day by the lake, and when he woke cradled to Porthos' chest, safely wrapped in sturdy arms, he felt like he still hadn't quite come back to Earth.

He shifted, seeking Aramis' warmth, and felt a kiss on his hair. 

"He's in the shower," Porthos murmured. "Wanted you to stay all nice and snuggled up."

"Generous," Athos mumbled, turning his face into the dip between Porthos' pectorals. 

"If you listen, I bet you can hear him practicing his belt," Porthos said, his smile clear in his voice. "He's been singing Disney songs for ten minutes." 

And when Athos lifted his head to listen, he saw the bedroom door was open a few inches--the last enjoyment of their freedom--and he heard, very clearly, from down the hall, Aramis' voice belting over the water, _"Turn away and SLAM the door!"_

Athos dropped his head back to Porthos' chest with a smile, and Porthos wrapped him up with a rumble of pleasure. "How you feeling?"

"Great." Athos kissed the stretch of Porthos' skin under his lips. "Can I get fucked to sleep every night? I've never slept so well."

"I'd be happy," and Porthos rolled them, then, burying Athos under him in the sheets, "to do that for you."

Athos let out a soft huff of air, sinking into the sense of it: Porthos' skin above, soft sheets below, everywhere warm and safe. "I"m still asleep," he realized absently, his mind not quite tracking, and he ran a hand over Porthos' shoulder, enjoying the smoothness of it, the muscle under his gentleness. 

"Babe?" Porthos settled a little more heavily on him, his brow furrowing. 

"Not all of me." Athos closed his eyes, tilting his head until his nose pressed against Porthos'. "Just the fraying edges. They're still all tucked in from last night."

Porthos made a quiet sound of understanding. He shifted over Athos, resting his weight on one elbow, and Athos relaxed even more at the touch of Porthos' fingertips over his temple. "I'm...I'm glad it's so good for you. I was a little worried when you just passed straight out."

"I didn't," Athos told him. He still felt so--so _calm._ "I was awake, I listened to you talking for half an hour. I simply--didn't need to move."

Porthos' hand stilled on his face. "You were awake? After we had sex?"

Athos nodded. "You did your research. Aramis thinks we're made for each other."

"But you were so..."

Athos felt his smile spread over his face, and after a moment Porthos laughed. Low, amazed, and he traced his fingertips over Athos' lips. "Damn. Yeah, babe, we can do that whenever you want."

Athos lay still, enjoying the feeling of Porthos' fingers dragging over his skin. "It might be too much for too often," he admitted. "But it did feel good."

He opened his eyes to see Porthos' face bare centimeters from his, and Porthos nodded solemnly, his lips quirked up at the sides. 

"I love you," Porthos said, rubbing his thumb over Athos' bottom lip. It was quieter than he'd ever said it before, and he didn't take his eyes from Athos'.

Porthos' eyes were different, this morning. There was something settled there; the absence of a tension Athos hadn't known until it was gone. Something steadier.

Something right.

Athos stretched up to kiss him, and Porthos' lips sealed against his. Aramis was right. They fit in every way imaginable.

Shower gel and shampoo smells filled his nose, then, and the bed dipped on the end. Porthos hummed, looking up with a lazy smile, and Aramis leaned in for a kiss of greeting.

"Good morning," Athos said, watching them with a curl of warmth in his chest.

"Good morning," Aramis murmured, and leaned down to kiss Athos, too. His skin was damp and warm, and a drop of garden-scented water dripped onto Athos' cheek from his hair, and he loved them both so much.

He drifted in that strange headspace for the rest of the afternoon. He showered with Porthos while Aramis made eggs in the kitchen, closing his eyes under the steaming spray as Porthos washed his hair. He ate bites of scrambled egg off Aramis' fork while he sat in Porthos' lap, feeling a little awkward, but unable to stop glowing under Aramis' tender smile. 

Through the whole time, they could hear the occasional swing of the stairwell door, or the elevator bell dinging faintly, but no one came in. No one broke their little bubble of sanctity, even if life was slowly returning to the other floors. Athos was grateful. He was still just a little confused by how...content they both seemed with him like this.

"I feel like I should be doing something for you," he said when they were cleaning up. He didn't know what, but he felt like he had to offer. He was starting to come back to himself, his usual cares and concerns falling back in like Tetris blocks. They felt more orderly this time, though, easier for him to catch and arrange and settle.

Porthos looked over his shoulder as he ran the pot he held under the water. "Seeing you this happy does plenty for me." Then he laughed at whatever Athos' face did in response to that. "For real, babe. I get to hold you all day, I get to feel all calm and strong because I got you to be this easy."

Athos' doubt had to still be plain on his face, because Porthos sighed a little and gave Athos a wry look. "Does it help if I say it's something _I_ need?"

Athos nodded, because yes, Porthos could know what he needed and Athos would give it to him. But something of his confusion must have still been visible, because Aramis handed his washcloth to Porthos and came over to sit with Athos at the table. 

"It's not a contest," Aramis said with a smile, draping his arm over Athos' shoulder. "And everybody gets a turn. You don't need to feel like you have to pay us back for every nice thing we do for you."

Athos smiled despite himself. It was so hard to stay nervous with Aramis here, holding him. "I'm not used to it," he confessed. "People doing things for me, without expecting I'll give them something back."

"But you are giving something back," Porthos cut in. He wasn't looking at them--his shoulders were tight and tense, as a matter of fact, but his voice was still soft. "Just because it's not exactly what we give you doesn't mean you aren't giving us something."

Porthos hated moments like this, Athos knew, when they had to shift Athos' worldview from his usual one to something a little less fucked.

"I think I understand," he said quietly, so the knots in Porthos' back would disappear, so Aramis would smile and kiss his cheek. He didn't, quite, but he could take what they said at face value, and try to work it into his understanding as he went along.

"This is as much for us as it is for you," Aramis said, and Porthos looked over his shoulder at that. Athos looked back to him, too, to find Aramis regarding them both with a smile. "The aftercare, Athos. All this today. It's hard for tops, too, to be on like last night. Days like today are to give all of us a chance to get grounded again."

"And your personal grounding involves hand-feeding me eggs," Athos said, just to be sure he was clear, and Porthos laughed aloud at that. 

"Yes," Aramis said, his smile widening. "And if, at any time, you would also like to hand-feed me anything, I will go disgustingly calf-eyed and probably all gooey in your arms."

"You would," Porthos laughed, shutting off the water and setting the last pot on a towel they'd spread on the countertop to dry. "Couch?" 

"Sure," Athos agreed, before letting his brain second-guess himself out of it, and the three of them moved to the couch in the attached living room. They could see the elevator through the windowed wall to the hallway, but it was still quiet. Constance had apparently texted Aramis earlier, to tell him she'd see them at dinner but probably not before, and as guilty as he felt about it, Athos was a little relieved. He wasn't sure he could handle having to downplay the touching and the relationship-y things like they'd done last night, so as not to rub it in her face.

They settled down in a tangled pile of limbs, Aramis and Porthos holding Athos between them, Aramis hooking his leg over Athos' and Porthos pulling them both close with an arm thrown over the back of the couch. Athos settled his head on Porthos' chest, Aramis resting his own curls on Athos' shoulder, and Athos let out the heavy, contented sigh that bubbled up in his chest at the warmth, the heaviness of both their weight around him. Grounding. He needed this kind of grounding.

"We will have to keep this kind of thing up," he said, taking advantage of his lowered filter to give them the honesty they deserved. "During the week, the rest of the semester. This is nice."

"This is excellent," Aramis murmured against him. "I can't believe I get to cuddle you this much. I never want to do anything else."

"We'll never get work done," Athos said, surprised at how little it bothered him. "We might as well take incompletes in all our classes now."

"Speak for yourself," Porthos chuckled. The movement of his chest bounced Athos' head up and down, and he loved the way Porthos' laugh echoed against his cheek. "I'm getting straight A's this semester and not even cuddly boyfriends are gonna stop me."

"You're fucking brilliant," Aramis said, lifting his head to grin at Porthos. "I don't think anyone else is going to get an A in Philosophy but you."

"Nobody else gets vicious with the prof like I do. Think the old bastard likes it."

Athos played idly with Aramis' fingers as they talked about their class. Tracing the back of his hand with his own thumb, steepling their fingers and twining them together. Aramis didn't break off his conversation with Porthos to acknowledge it, but the gentle curls of his fingers around Athos' said enough.

Athos spread his fingertips, pushing Aramis' apart with his own and studying the star shape of their joined hands. He'd never enjoyed simple touch quite like this before. It was intimate in a wholly different way than what they'd done the night before, but it felt just as necessary. Just as sweet.

The elevator bell rang, loud and close, and Porthos and Aramis broke off their conversation. Porthos twisted his head around to see who it was, but Athos kept his cheek pressed to Porthos' chest. He just wanted to keep this for today. 

The doors rumbled, a pause--then Athos heard a familiar laugh. 

"Oh, my god, this is even more disgusting than the picture made me think."

"Athos, the puppy came home!" Aramis said brightly. "I told you if we left the food out he'd smell his way back."

Athos grinned against Porthos' hoodie and lifted his head, just enough to turn and see their friend in the doorway. "Hello, d'Artagnan."

"Hey." D'Artagnan grinned at him, unslinging his backpack and dropping it on the floor. 'This is so cute I'm gonna throw up."

Athos dropped his head back to Porthos' chest. "Aramis, if your puppy makes a mess on the carpet, we're going to have words."

"Aw, he's just a harmless thing," Porthos rumbled, and Athos felt him wave to d'Artagnan. "C'mere, it's good to see you."

Athos grunted as the whole couch shook with d'Artagnan's graceless flop. "Completely destroy our tranquility, no, please do."

"You missed me," d'Artagnan said cheerfully, snuggling up to Porthos, and Athos had to smile.

"Only a little," he said, twisting until he was facing forward on the couch, and could see d'Artagnan grinning over Porthos' chest at him. "Though a little warning would have been nice."

"I texted you," d'Artagnan protested. 

Athos frowned. "No, you didn't."

"Your phone's in our room," Porthos reminded him.

They had just enough time to look at each other and start blushing before d'Artagnan caught on. 

_"Our_ room?" d'Artagnan said incredulously, lifting his head from Porthos' shoulder--but he was smiling, that was a big, goofy, happy grin, delighting in catching them at it. 

And rightly, with the easy practice of a big brother, Porthos pulled him back down into a headlock. "Yeah, but keep your mouth shut about it until we decide, hear me?"

"Ow, ow, yeah, geez, stop," d'Artagnan laughed, pounding a fist against Porthos' chest and wriggling in his hold. "Fuck's sake, Porthos, you are twice my size, this is child abuse--"

"He admits he's a child," Aramis drawled, and leaned over to ruffle d'Artagnan's wild hair. "Someone make a note."

"Noted and logged," Athos said with a smile, and hauled himself up off the couch. 

Porthos and Aramis reached out to him with identical expressions of _no stop stay_ , and he waved a hand at them as he headed to the door. "I'm just getting my phone," he said, warmed through to his heart at the way they wanted him close.

"Make them let me go!" d'Artagnan yelled after him. 

Athos ignored him.

His phone was on the bed, hiding under a corner of the sheet, and he remembered tossing it there after checking the time when they woke up. He picked it up and unlocked the screen, and the slew of notifications made him wince.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, scrolling idly through them--d'Artagnan, an email from Treville, something in French from Ninon--when he hit the ones from the day before.

_[Voicemail & Missed Call: Sophie Nguyen]_

He'd forgotten, in the rush of getting Constance and everything since.

The calmness that had settled on him the night before still lay gentle along his bones. The worried thump of his heart was quieter, in the safe place that Porthos and Aramis had given him. 

Without really thinking about it, Athos thumbed the notification and lifted the phone to his ear.

A pause, and then Sophie's bright, sharp French crackled over the speaker. _"Bonjour, Athos! Happy Thanksgiving. We all hope you're having a lovely day with your friends. Take care, enjoy the rest of the semester, and know that you're in our thoughts. Au revoir!"_

And that was all.

He sat for a few breaths, listening to the silence--to all the things he'd expected that message to say, and all the things that it hadn't.

_We._

For all that Sophie was his mother's right hand, _we_ from her lips never meant his parents, the family. They were a rigidly status-conscious organization, his home. Family was family, staff was staff.

_We_ meant Marie in the kitchen, Jean-Phillipe in the garage, Caroline and Lucie and Robert who did all the rest of the things that made their house function.

His parents hadn't sent their love, but the people who'd truly raised him did.

It made Athos oddly happy--and a little sad.

It must have shown on his face as he walked back into the common room, because Porthos and Aramis gave him strange looks the minute they saw him. They didn't say anything--both clearly not wanting to call d'Artagnan's attention to him--but they hadn't counted on d'Artagnan himself.

"You okay?" d'Artagnan asked, the second he looked up from whatever he was showing them on his phone.

Athos opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn't used to...not having to lie when people asked him that.

"I'm fine," he said, surprising himself a little with the truth of it. "My mother's assistant left me a voicemail, she and the rest of the staff wishing me a happy Thanksgiving."

Aramis and Porthos' faces were identical pictures of concern, as Aramis held out his arms and Athos went to them. He appreciated their tact, their worry, and he'd have to tell them later how their care had already kept him settled. 

D'Artagnan, oblivious to all of this, made a pleased sound as he looked back down at his phone. "That's nice."

Athos nodded, settling deeper into Aramis' arms, reaching out to catch Porthos' fingers with his own. "Yes," he agreed, pleased and a little bemused that he really did mean it. "It was nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you need me, [I'm here.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) (As is [U Pro O swag](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/post/124777045270/u-pro-o-stuffs), if anyone is so inclined to help me through a rough patch.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day back after break--Athos has several epiphanies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bless every single one of you who has sent me lovely notes through this hiatus. thank you for your patience in waiting while I finished "my heart upon my sleeve," and thank you for waiting while I did [enormous clusterfuck of real life shit over the past few months in between]. LET US PROCEED.

Athos groaned into his pillow as Porthos poked him in the side. "No."

"Turn off your alarm and go to Statistics."

 _"No."_

Aramis made a disgruntled sound from Porthos' other side--and then suddenly the blanket slid off Athos' back. He groaned louder, reaching for it, but Aramis had rolled over, wrapping himself up in it. "Sleeping," Aramis grumbled from the depths of the blanket. 

"I will kick you out of bed, Athos," Porthos muttered, rolling over to spoon Aramis instead. Cold and abandoned, Athos sat up and rubbed blearily at his eyes as he slammed his hand down on his phone. Class. It was Monday. 

Their week was over.

"Turn the radiator up before you go," Porthos mumbled into Aramis' hair. 

Athos huffed out an irritated snort before heaving himself up off the bed and trudging to his closet for a clean shirt and boxers. But he did turn the radiator up as he got dressed. 

Aramis sighed out happily as the steam hiss from the old, creaking system started to leach out into the room. "Have good class," he mumbled, reaching a hand up out of the blanket to flail over Porthos' shoulder in Athos' general direction.

"What he said," Porthos' muffled voice echoed, and he burrowed even deeper into Aramis' hair. 

"You're the worst," Athos said to them as he laced up his sneakers. 

"We love you, too," Aramis yawned, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

Athos was still grinning like a fool as he walked into Statistics. Damn them. 

It felt surreal to see other human beings settling into chairs in the classroom. The world went on, even though his own personal universe had gone such a titanic rearranging. How many days had it been? Ten? He'd only barely begun re-integrating to human society yesterday. They'd done the homework they'd neglected all week in the kitchen, so Athos could say hello to people as they came back from break. D'Artagnan had joined them, Constance too eventually, and a few fellow fencers extended the sprawl into the common room. But they'd all been familiar, safe. This was--everyone else.

"Good morning, Athos," his professor greeted him, and Athos hitched a slightly more normal and less absurd smile onto his face. "You're early."

Athos tried not to cringe at this being something of note. "Uh, yes," he said, hovering somewhat awkwardly between the door and the aisle to his seat in the back. "I, uh, didn't oversleep for once."

His professor smiled indulgently. "Vacations can be a great help," she said, and looked back at her notes. Athos took this as his cue to flee. His seat in the back was a comforting point of familiarity, and Athos hastily ducked into his chair. Yes. Notebook. Pencil. He remembered how to do this.

"Hey, man," a voice said, and Athos looked up to see another fencer drop into the chair in front of him. Micah lived on their floor, though he must have come in late yesterday, and Athos smiled in greeting. 

"Good break?" he asked, watching Micah pull out his own notebook. Yes. Normal questions. Conversation. He could do this.

"Yeah, you know, regular family stuff," Micah said with a shrug. He flashed Athos a sidelong grin. "Zeng said he saw you in the kitchen yesterday? With Porthos and Aramis? You guys made up?"

Athos felt the back of his neck heat in reflexive embarrassment--personal discussions, oh God, he'd never been good at this--then ruthlessly squashed any shame down. He was happy about this. He was going to be proud of it. "Yes," he said, trying to keep his voice as normal as possible. "It was a good break."

Micah grinned at him, a flash of teeth almost as mischievous as Porthos. "And the, uh, kissing he said he saw? Between several varied combinations of you three?"

There was no fighting _this_ blush, but Athos pressed on despite it. "We're going to tell the whole team at practice today," he said, vainly trying to keep the _completely fucking gone_ grin from taking over his whole face. "But we're, ah, together. Officially."

Micah gravely held out a fist. Athos stared for a moment before he realized he was supposed to bump it with his own, and did. "Right fuckin' on, man," Micah said.

Athos surrendered to the blush fighting to take over his entire face. "Thanks," he said, grinning helplessly, and then the professor closed the door and strode up to the front, and Micah turned around in his seat.

 _That was easy,_ Athos thought, heartened. Was it all going to be this easy? Were people just--going to be happy for them? Surely someone was going to take issue with it, but--if the people who mattered didn't, if the team didn't ostracize them and if Treville was on their side…

Maybe Porthos had been right, yesterday. _We've got good people around us,_ he'd said, when Athos had spent the whole morning jumping in his seat whenever they were holding hands and someone walked past. _They're gonna be okay, babe._

Optimism had never been Athos' strong suit. He'd never had much reason for it. But maybe he could believe Porthos this time. 

_We're dating,_ he tried it out in his head, picturing himself standing in front of the team. In front of Sophie. His parents.

All right, not his parents. But. 

_These are my partners,_ at a graduate school dinner. _Have you met my boyfriends?_ at a party. _I'm Aramis' partner. This is Porthos. So is he._ Unorthodox, yes--not expected, for most people, so he'd have to be prepared for even more conversational lulls than normal--

And then all at once he could imagine his own voice, loud and clear yet calm and poised. He could hear it in his head, with the faint echo that the formal dining room walls gave to each person's voice in his home.

_We're together. The three of us. I love them._

His heart thudded painfully against his ribs just imagining being able to say the words--

\--and then he heard his mother's voice, just as clearly.

_That will be all, Olivier._

Oh, nausea. Such a familiar old friend.

Athos surrendered to the temptation to rest his face in his hands, rubbing briskly at his eyebrows. _That will be all, Olivier._ And it would be all. All that needed saying, all that needed doing. He would receive his mother's formal dismissal, and the topic would be off-limits from them on. No blessing. No approval. No love.

Would that be better, he thought, half-manic in his own head? Being able to cut the tie completely, if they couldn't accept the people he was with?

Or would it just run him into the ground all over again, crushed by the weight of everything he'd failed at in his family's eyes?

He didn't even have to answer that question in his head. The way his stomach dropped said it all.

But he didn't have to worry about that now. He wasn't going to see his parents until next year, probably. Treville mattered. The team mattered. His parents didn't. 

It didn't matter that they'd hate him. Or abandon him. It didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. 

Aramis and Porthos were his family now.

The thought came all at once--and then slower again, in pieces: Aramis and Porthos were his family. Aramis and Porthos. His family. He could choose. He could have them be the people he leaned on, the people he made a home with, the people he could count on.

 _Aramis and Porthos are my family,_ he thought, slow and wonderingly at first--and then again, faster, more. _They're my family. Aramis and Porthos are. They're my family._

His hand hurt, he realized then, and he looked down to see that he was white-knuckling the pencil in his hand. His note-taking had trailed off to a scribble, his pencil lead in danger of snapping off with all the pressure he had on it, and Athos gently set his pencil down, made his hand relax.

Then something made him flip the notebook over. He snatched up the pencil again, and started to write quickly, carelessly, just to get it out. 

_Aramis and Porthos are my family. Aramis and Porthos are my family. Aramis and Porthos are my family._

And another idea came to him, then, and Athos chewed on his lip for a long moment before surrendering to it. _Athos Duvallon-Herrera,_ he wrote, feeling a tingling rush swelling up in his chest. _Herrera-Duvallon. The Duvallon-Herreras._ He didn't _have_ to keep the name that made him so cold inside, the sense of constant dread when he saw himself on a piece of paper, heard himself called, had to say it himself. He could choose.

He could _choose_ them. And he did.

 _Aramis, Porthos, and Athos,_ he wrote over and over on his notebook, all combinations of their names and surnames, all the ways they could choose each other and show everyone they were family now.

He wrote and he wrote and he wrote, giddy with the possibilities. They could choose. 

He could be free.

The thought was intoxicating enough that he didn't realize class was over until Micah tapped on his notebook page. He jerked up, startled, only to see Micah flashing him a delighted grin over his shoulder as he walked away. 

Shaking himself, Athos checked his phone--was it really this late already? He had a message in their app from Aramis--or, more accurately, a single word, which was _breakfast!_

The dining hall was crowded when he came in with the wave of students returning from similarly early classes, but it only took him moments to spot Aramis and Porthos at a two-seater by the window. He was attuned to them again--in sync, the way they were meant to be. 

God, even just seeing them made Athos' heart pick up again. He missed them. It had barely been an hour, and he missed them so much already. 

Luckily, from the way Porthos sat up straight and waved at him, his smile spreading wide the second he spotted Athos lurking by the door, Athos wasn't the only one feeling absurdly clingy.

"Hey," Porthos said, beaming at Athos as he wound his way through the tables. "There you are."

Athos caught Porthos' hand and squeezed his fingers as soon as he was in arm's length, and reached out for Aramis, too. "Yeah."

"Hi," Aramis said, looking up at Athos with a smile huge in his face. He looked so sweet in the gold-tinged morning sun, and Athos didn't even think before bending down to kiss him. 

He realized, of course, about half a second after Aramis' muffled squeak of surprise, that they were kissing in full view of the entire dining hall. He froze, suddenly unsure if--if _Aramis_ wanted this, if it was too soon--

Then Aramis' hand hooked up into his hair and held him close, and Aramis pressed up against his kiss fervent and fierce, and Athos relaxed and kissed him back.

He didn't care, he marveled, if someone was watching. He almost wanted them to see. _Look at us,_ he thought savagely. _Tell someone. Tell everyone. I love them._

"I'm gonna start needing to take you back to bed in about five seconds if you don't stop that," Porthos said conversationally, but the heat under his words made Aramis' fingers spasm tighter in Athos' hair for a second.

Then he eased his grip and Athos pulled back, and Aramis looked up at Athos through his eyelashes with a burning look of promise--and _awe._ "Athos," Aramis said, sounding a little taken aback.

Athos swallowed. "I, uh, had an epiphany in Stats."

Porthos laughed, and Athos turned to see his fierce grin. "Tell me this epiphany gets me a kiss too?"

Athos tried to embrace the nervous flip of his stomach, the particular spike of fear in the pit of his chest. It meant he wanted this--he was just scared of what other people would think.

He took a breath and grinned back at Porthos. "Absolutely." 

Porthos rumbled a low growl in his throat as Athos ducked down to kiss him, too. He reached up to hold onto Athos, too--cupped the back of his neck and held him steady, just like always, and Athos sighed out against Porthos' lips as the weight of Porthos' hand grounded him.

"You okay?" Porthos asked quietly when they finally parted.

Athos nodded, breathed. "Yeah."

"Some epiphany," Aramis said gently, tugging Athos toward the empty chair. 

Athos let himself be led, and he dropped into his seat with some relief. "It...yeah." 

Porthos stretched his leg out under the table and pressed his calf against Athos'. "Anything we can do?"

Athos ducked his head and smiled. Right. He didn't have to do this alone anymore.

"I was thinking about...how people are going to find out," he said at length, rolling the edge of Aramis' napkin between his fingers. "And about how it doesn't--scare me."

He heard Aramis' breath catch, and Porthos' leg pressed more fully against his. "Yeah?" Porthos said, his voice a little ragged at the edge.

Athos dared a glance up at them, saw Aramis' eyes wide and wet, saw Porthos' dark and intent--and both of them smiling.

"Yeah," he said, his own voice scratching a bit. "I--I want people to know. I want to tell--everyone." Aramis' smile cracked even wider, and Athos felt it hot and warm in his stomach, better than liquid courage. It was enough to keep him going. "I'm really not afraid," he confessed, braver, bolder for the pair of them being there to smile at him. "I want everyone to see us. I want them to know what you both are to me."

Porthos grinned even broader at him, something softer in his eyes. "That so?"

Athos smiled back. "Yes."

He didn't stumble over it. He didn't feel his heart thudding so hard that he thought he'd pass out. He didn't hear any voices screaming at him in the back of his head.

"What time is it?" Aramis asked, apropos of nothing, and both Athos and Porthos turned to blink at him.

"Almost ten?" Porthos answered, one eyebrow cocking up.

Aramis nodded, taking that in--Philosophy wasn't until eleven-fifteen--then stood abruptly. "We're going back to bed."

Athos' whole body shuddered, vibrating in sympathy to the look on Aramis' face, and he stood up so quickly he almost knocked his chair over. "Yes?"

Porthos chuckled, standing up slowly and scooping up Aramis' cup and plate on his own tray. "You two are fuckin' rabbits, I swear."

"Did I say anything about sex?" Aramis said archly, reaching out for Athos' hand. 

"You didn't have to." Porthos flashed Athos a grin as he led the way toward the tray return. "The tent Athos just pitched in his pants said it for you."

Athos didn't even bother trying to deny it. He laced his fingers through Aramis' and squeezed tightly--his mouth had gone dry just from Aramis leading him through the dining hall holding his hand. Every cell in Athos' body jangled with excited electricity. They were holding hands, there were people everywhere, and Athos was _holding Aramis' hand._ _Aramis_ was holding _him._

And Porthos was looking back over his shoulder at them with a sly grin and heat in his eyes, and the back of Aramis' neck was flushed pink where Athos was staring at it, and Athos was fairly certain that if they didn't get somewhere secluded in the next thirty seconds, he would spontaneously combust in the middle of the dining hall.

They managed not to grope each other in the tray return alcove, or in the hallway, or in the elevator. They behaved themselves all the way up to Athos' room--even with Porthos' arm hooked tight around Aramis' waist, with Aramis' fingertips drumming a beat on the inside of Athos' wrist. Athos could just turn his face into Aramis' shoulder and breathe in, and fill his senses with them. Aramis smelled like the sheets--like Porthos' pomade and Athos' own laundry detergent, with Aramis' own warm scent underneath it all. 

Aramis made a soft sound, and Athos realized he was pressing his nose into the line of Aramis' throat, his lips tracing the edge of Aramis' collarbone. Athos blinked his eyes open, lifting his head to look at Aramis, and met Aramis' own dark eyes looking down into his.

The elevator dinged for their floor. 

Athos launched himself into Aramis' arms.

"We were so close," Porthos said in mock-despair, taking Athos and Aramis each by the shoulder and steering them out into the hall.

"We'll do better next time," Aramis gasped against Athos' lips, hauling him backward down the hallway with two fists in his t-shirt.

Porthos' laugh carried all the way down the hallway as they slammed the door shut behind themselves.

\- 

"I vote we skip Philosophy," Porthos mumbled into the pillow. Aramis hummed an agreement, curving his body into Porthos' as he lay sprawled over his bulk. 

Athos poked him in the shoulder. "I remember _someone_ kicking _me_ out of bed to go to class this morning."

Porthos groaned. "Aw, babe, no."

Athos grinned, a smile spreading slow over his face. "It'd serve you right."

Aramis whined pitifully and lifted his head enough to fix Athos with wide brown eyes. "Athos."

He was completely _gone_ for that look. "I was just teasing," Athos said, consumed suddenly with the need to fix it. "Really, Aramis."

Porthos snorted. "And you thought you weren't a sucker for that look."

"When did I ever say that?" Athos shifted closer in bed, reaching for Aramis, who drew him closer with a contented purr. "I've been as gone for him as you since the first day."

"Oh, yeah?" Aramis arched delightedly against Porthos. "You should tell me all about how enchanting I was."

Porthos chuckled low, holding Aramis even tighter to his chest. "You didn't even have to try."

"Completely charming," Athos said in mock-despair, pressing close to the two of them. "You hugged me the moment you met me. Nobody had hugged me in a year. I nearly cried."

The silence only had to stretch for a few moments before Athos realized what had come out of his mouth. That...that was not a thing normal people said. He bit his lip, trying to think of something to say that would fix it, when Aramis' lips smacked a kiss to his forehead. 

"Someday," Aramis said, his voice remarkably steady, "I'm going to ask you to explain that."

Athos relaxed against him again, closing his eyes and burying his face into the curve of Aramis' neck. "Someday," he sighed, "I think I'll be able to tell you."

Someday. Maybe even soon. Maybe soon, he'd be able to tell them at least a little about that year. Not all of it--God, not even close to all of it, he never wanted them to know how bad it had been--but maybe a little. Just where he'd been, how far he'd gone.

The chill of it pressed at his spine, and Athos curled closer into Aramis, his hand snaking up to find Porthos' arm. He didn't want to think about it. He wasn't letting the past come into this room, into this bed. 

"We've got you," Porthos murmured, and Athos nodded, pressing his forehead to Aramis' skin.

Aramis sighed, and he nuzzled his chin against Athos' hair. "I definitely don't want to go to class _now_ ," he said, sounding annoyed for some reason.

Porthos grunted in agreement. "Still be here when we get back," he said softly, to Aramis, it seemed, and Athos frowned.

"Are you talking about me?"

"Yes," Aramis said, and kissed his forehead again. "I hate leaving you when you're all cuddly and open."

"Oh." Athos felt his cheeks heat, which was ridiculous, considering they were all naked and sprawled on top of each other. Emotional vulnerability still took him off-guard. "Well. I can walk you to class, at least."

"Athos!" Aramis sounded utterly delighted. 

"That's so fucking charming," Porthos laughed. "Like a fifties movie."

"Dibs on his letter jacket."

Athos buried his flaming face in Aramis' shoulder. "Will you both stop."

Porthos pressed a smacking kiss to his hair. "Never."

"What are you going to do before practice?" Aramis asked, stroking the inside of Athos' wrist with gentle fingers. 

Athos sighed and let his head sink into the sheets. "I should get work done. Maybe I'll go to the campus center."

Porthos blew out his breath in a low huff, ruffling Athos' hair against his forehead. "Back to the real world, huh?"

He sounded so _sad_ about it. Athos twisted, craning his neck up to see Porthos' face--his eyes were heavy, and his teeth worried at his bottom lip. 

Athos stretched up and kissed the downward twist of his smile. Porthos blinked at him in surprise, and Athos traced a finger over Porthos' furrowed brow. 

"We'll be all right," he said, and Porthos' smile slowly curved back up. 

Aramis hummed an agreement, beaming at them both with his chin on Porthos' chest. 

Porthos smiled and shook his head. "I'm gonna keep you both in this bed if we don't get up and go to class," he said, his voice warm with promise.

Aramis groaned and pushed himself upright. "Stop making that sound so attractive."

"It would be bad form," Athos drawled, propping his head on his arm and watching the two of them as they climbed out of bed. "Skipping class for sex. What _would_ the team think."

"They don't have to know," Porthos grumbled as he dragged his boxers on. 

"They'll think you're a true role model," Aramis laughed, tossing Athos his t-shirt from where they'd thrown them on the floor, "once they know what you've given up for their sake. Since you'll be bravely doing--what, exactly, until practice?"

Athos groaned and pulled his t-shirt over his head. "I need to get some lesson plans done. I also need coffee."

"That's what the campus center's for," Porthos said, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead. 

They managed to dress themselves and get out the door without further flirting or distractions--and for the first time in a long, long time, Athos found himself out in public with someone--two someones--he was dating.

He forgot the way it made his skin prickle. The way it made him feel that everyone was watching him. They were just _walking_ \--Athos between Aramis and Porthos, the backs of their hands occasionally ghosting against his as their arms swung--but it felt like everyone could _see_ the new connection between them.

He'd always wanted everyone to see him with Anne--but it was a different feeling than this. That had been almost a craving, something desperate in it. _See us together, make it real, make it something everyone knows so I can feel like it's not going to vanish._

This felt so much safer, so much calmer. _Look at us,_ he almost wanted to shout. _Look at us together._

 _Look how fucking happy I am,_ look.

It felt like there were people absolutely everywhere--was campus always this crowded, or did Athos usually go around in a fog of his own making? Part of him wanted to just give it up and go back to his room to hide, but, no. He was going to get out and do work. He needed to get used to this, after all. Spending weeks on end locked up with no one but Aramis and Porthos wouldn't do him any good, and it certainly wouldn't do _them_ any good. They told him now, of course, that they wouldn't get sick of him, and he believed them to a point, but he certainly didn't want to speed the process along on the off chance it might happen.

Porthos' hand brushed the back of his as they walked, and the warm, soft touch pulled Athos out of his recriminations like a balm. He kept _doing_ that. He had to trust them. He had to trust that they knew what they were getting into with him--and that they meant what they said. 

He trusted them with his life. His heart wasn't any different.

Aramis' hand landed gently on the small of his back, and Athos jolted back into his body, looking around at him. "Sorry?"

"Stairs," Aramis said with a knowing smile, jerking his head at the steps up the hill to the academic quad. "Don't trip."

"I wasn't going to," Athos said, drawing on as much dignity as possible. He needed to re-learn how to walk and think at the same time, apparently. It had been a very introspective week.

Porthos laughed as they started up the stairs, but it was a little strained. "You don't have to walk us _all_ the way in, if you're bothered--"

"I'm not bothered," Athos said instantly, looking sharply over to him. "I'm just--getting used to it." He watched Porthos' expression shutter slightly, watched Aramis' teeth worry at his bottom lip, and realized he needed to add another sentence to that. "I'm _excited._ "

Porthos paused on his step, his hand stilling on the rail, and he looked over at Athos, his own cheeks tinted darker--from the cold, from the exertion, or from the same shy pleasure lighting up his eyes.

"Yeah?" Porthos asked, his voice softer.

Athos nodded, and reached over for his hand. "Yes."

He didn't drop it all the way to their classroom, didn't even let go at the sight of Porthos and Aramis' whole philosophy class milling around outside the room waiting for the previous meeting to let out. Aramis slipped his arm around Porthos, too, resting his chin on Porthos' shoulder as they stood, and Porthos flushed even darker, his head ducked down a bit to hide the grin taking over his face.

Athos didn't let go of Porthos' hand until the classroom door opened and the prior class came flooding out. And even then, he only let go so he could reach up for Porthos' cheek and turn him close for a kiss.

Porthos' lips parted in surprise--then he leaned in and kissed Athos fierce and deep, pressing even closer and cupping the back of his neck with one hand. Athos sank into it, almost lightheaded with how good it felt.

It really was dizzying. The dining hall had been one thing--just one hall, just their side of campus--but this was as public as public could be. Classes were changing, everyone was walking past and standing around talking--the _dean's_ offices were just around the corner, for heaven's sake-- 

Anyone who chose to could look over and see him and Porthos kissing, here, in the middle of it all. And Porthos was kissing Athos with a peculiar kind of desperation, like it would be their last kiss ever--or their first. 

Maybe, Athos realized with a lurch, no one had ever kissed Porthos like this in public before.

The thought was enough to make him lean in closer, step into Porthos' body heat and tilt his face up to deepen the kiss. To flatten his palm on the hinge of Porthos' jaw and hold him, just to feel the warmth of his skin and the flex of his muscles as he kissed him back.

"Loves," Aramis murmured softly, regretfully, and Athos felt Porthos slump against him. Athos held onto him a moment longer, storing up the feeling, then gently eased back. 

Porthos' eyes were dark and full when he finally opened them. Athos wanted to say something comforting--something funny and warm, something that Aramis would say--only he couldn't, because Porthos was looking at Athos with this wide and wanting stare, and all Athos could do was stare back.

Aramis ducked in and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to both of their cheeks. "We can be even more beautifully demonstrative later," he said, his voice rich with promise. "We should go to class now, though, darling."

"Yeah, I know," Porthos sighed, his hand still heavy and warm on the back of Athos' neck. "Fucking hell, Athos."

Athos' stomach dropped like he'd missed a step--had he misread? "Too--" His voice cracked, and he swallowed. "Too much?"

Porthos stared at him.

Then Aramis had to grab Porthos' shoulder and pull him back before he could lunge in for another kiss. "No, no, Porthos, no more making out in the hallway."

"Come _on_ ," Porthos argued, staring at Athos with devouring eyes, "we've got a minute before lecture starts--"

"We have group presentations Friday and have to talk to Shelly and Rob first." Aramis was grinning even as he pressed his forehead to Porthos' temple. 

Athos swallowed down the surge of his own relief (and arousal) and gave Aramis a look. "Who are you and what have you done with Aramis?"

Aramis rolled his eyes, hooking a still hot-eyed Porthos against his side. "I am occasionally responsible. Porthos?"

Porthos heaved a sigh, reaching out to tangle his fingers with Athos'. "Fine, fine. See you before practice?"

Athos nodded, his cheeks hot and his whole body feeling loose and flushed with the freedom--the excitement, the nerves--of being here and being a boyfriend in public. This was step one. Step two was practice, and he felt ready for it. 

"I'll see you after your seminar," he said, and squeezed Porthos' fingers. 

Porthos flashed a grin, his kiss-bitten lips curving deliciously. "Yeah, you will."

Aramis leaned in to press a light kiss to the corner of Athos' mouth. "Have a good time with your lesson plans."

"Must you mock me?"

Their laughs buoyed him up enough for him to tear himself away--enough that he could walk down the hall with his head held high, his own kiss- and beard-marked face on proud display for anyone who'd managed to miss the actual event. He wasn't ashamed. He wasn't regretting anything. 

He hoped _everyone_ had seen.

-

Of course, it was all well and good in theory. The actual practice of, well, coming out at team practice, was making Athos more and more queasy the closer they drew to the sports building.

"Are you nervous?" Porthos asked, his arm coming around Athos' shoulders so easily. 

Athos took a deep breath, grounding himself with Porthos' warmth so near. Aramis' slender fingers, cold in the winter air, slipped into his fingers and squeezed. Athos squeezed back and smiled at him. "A little," he admitted. "I think--if someone were going to react badly, we might have known by now. We've already--directly or indirectly--told quite a few people. But it's still…"

"Nerve-wracking," Aramis supplied quietly. 

Athos and Porthos looked over to him, both sharply aware of the heaviness in his voice. "Aramis?" Porthos asked, shifting his arm around Athos in preparation to reach out. 

Aramis squeezed Athos' hand again, and smiled fondly at them both. "I'm excited," he said. "And I'm proud. That doesn't mean I'm not a little nervous, too." 

Athos nodded, swallowing down the spike of nerves that had risen at Aramis' words. "Yes."

Porthos blew out his breath. "Yeah. Feels kinda big, huh?"

Aramis grinned tightly at him. "Pretty significant."

"The first day of the rest of our lives," Athos said, tilting his head back to look up at the slate sky. It was rapidly getting dark, early evening settling above them, and the cold was starting to bite. 

Lips smacked against his cheek, and Athos jolted in surprise, turning to blink at Porthos' grin a few inches from his face. 

Porthos nuzzled at his temple, his smile so wide Athos couldn't see the edges from this close. "It makes me really happy when you say that stuff," Porthos said, so plainly _pleased_ that Athos' nerves floated out with the mist in his breath.

He was being a good boyfriend today, he realized with a jolt of excitement. He hadn't tried to tamp down any of his feelings, he hadn't done anything to make them think he didn't care or wasn't invested. 

The thought that maybe he actually _could_ do this--come out to everyone as a couple, and maybe not fuck it up and incur everyone's wrath for breaking Aramis and Porthos' hearts--got him up the hill, and into the dressing room, and into the studio.

He could do this.

The noise level peaked when the three of them walked in, then quieted sharply as Athos hid his smile and strode to the front of the room. "Good afternoon, everyone."

The chorus of greetings sounded more chipper than normal--or was that his own good mood?--and Athos let himself relax a little. "Shall we start with warm-ups?"

He hadn't felt this...this _balanced_ in a long time. Leading his team through warm-ups, splitting into groups for exercises and drills--he didn't have anything to worry about. Aramis and Porthos were here, and happy, and as Athos helped the younger fencers with their forms, he could feel the two of them on the periphery of his senses, moving easily through the room, reestablishing the trust and surety that had lapsed in their broken weeks.

That--that was the hard part done with already. The three of them could move together, could be comfortable together--and the rest of the team would follow. 

And Athos had his equilibrium back, in the two of them. He had solid ground holding him up again. 

The room was almost giddy with the release of tension when they finally called practice to an end. Athos nearly had to shout to be heard over the excited babble of everyone's high spirits--he hadn't had to do that in weeks, and he was _thrilled_ \--as he rounded everyone up for announcements.

"Sorry to be the buzzkill, it'll just be a minute." Athos glanced down at the paper schedule Treville carried to each practice. "New members looking to try out sabres or épées, Porthos and Aramis are going to have open studio Thursday and Friday to introduce any curious parties to new weapons. For all team, we'll schedule some drop-in conditioning workouts leading up the next tournament, so keep an eye on the doc--"

Kira's hand shot up into the air, and Athos broke off, looking over at the épéeist. "Sorry, yes?"

"I had a question," she said. 

Athos blinked. "Yes?"

Kira lowered her hand and crossed her arms over her chest. "What's up with you and Aramis and Porthos? Are you three still fighting? Because that really sucked and it was not good for the team, like, at all."

All the blood in Athos' body flooded straight to his face. Dimly he heard the rest of the room react--a few people hissing Kira's name, some gasps, someone (d'Artagnan?) hastily stifling a laugh--but he felt frozen. Completely aflame with embarrassment, and also frozen. 

"That," he said his voice dim over the thump of his pulse in his ears, "was going to be my last announcement, Kira, thank you, but if you'd rather I just say so now--"

"Yes," she said firmly. 

Athos swallowed, and his eyes flicked of their own accord to Porthos and Aramis. They were standing next to each other, near the weapon rack, and they both looked about as wild around the eyes as he felt--but Aramis looked excited, and Porthos was grinning like he couldn't help himself, and when Aramis gave Athos an encouraging nod, Athos felt his throat unlock. 

"We're not fighting anymore, no," he said, managing to tear his eyes from them and back to the rest of the team. "We are also, um, dating. So. That is...a thing. That's happening." _Oh, for God's sake, would you shut_ up, _you complete idiot--_

Kira's eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and Athos nearly broke his teeth shutting his mouth so quickly. He couldn't read her face, no one was saying anything, what was--

"You weren't already?" she said in _obvious_ surprise, and Athos felt his jaw drop open again. 

"Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?" he blurted out before he could stop himself, and the room devolved into total chaos. 

The team dragged Athos forward into a whooping tempest of hugs and back-slaps, and he saw Porthos and Aramis disappear under a wave of enthusiastic sophomores. He hardly knew how to answer all the exuberant affection, from Laura's smacking kiss on the cheek to Trent's grinning hair-ruffle propelling him into the heart of the team's huddle--

And then he felt himself collide with a familiar form, and he put an arm around Aramis' waist and drew him close--like a reflex, instantaneous and automatic. Aramis' arm came around him just as quickly, hooking Athos into his side on the feel of his touch alone. He felt Porthos' hand settle on his shoulder, squeezing tight, and the ground stabilized under his feet. 

Their excited teammates surrounded them with well-wishes (and no small amount of relief), and when Athos looked around himself, he caught his own reflection in the mirrored wall of the studio.

It took him a second to realize he was looking at himself. 

He couldn't remember seeing himself smile like this before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happyhappy. as always, [you know where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week later--small shifts in the routine. Constance makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best readers ever and you honestly keep me going on my bad, doubting days. Thank you all so much!
> 
> WARNINGS in this chapter for mentions of a formerly abusive relationship (Athos and Anne's) and for some really toxic masculinity and emotional manipulation (Constance and Jacques).

Aramis dropped onto the couch beside Athos and kicked his feet up into Athos' lap, heedless of the notebook propped on his knees. "Oh, my God, we're in the _Musketeer News._ "

Athos caught his spiral before it could fall, his stomach lurching up into his throat. "We're what?" Porthos and d'Artagnan looked up in interest, and Athos tried to compose his face. The four of them were the only ones in the athlete lounge, but for some reason he felt very exposed right then. 

"Nothing better to read in the bathroom?" Porthos asked around a mouthful of trail mix. 

Aramis was beaming over the folded newsprint. "You know I love the gossip column. _'Have you seen the new campus couple around--or is couple even the right word? Our fencing team's trio of captains are the newest hot item at Dumas!'_ And then there's some flattering stuff about how attractive we are together, how unfair it is we've all taken ourselves off the market with each other--I should send this to my mama."

Porthos snorted, flashing a fond look at him. "Gotta keep up with your press clippings?"

"Of course."

Athos flipped his notebook back open to the page of drills he'd been working on and tried to calm the rush of his heart. "I can't believe there's no better gossip this week."

D'Artagnan eyed Athos from across the room. "Are you going to throw up?"

"No."

"You look it."

"I'm not going to throw up," Athos snapped, feeling a flush creeping up the back of his neck. "It's just weird."

Aramis stroked the outside of Athos' thigh a little awkwardly with one of his heels, and Athos looked up to see him frowning in concern. "Does it bother you?"

Athos opened his mouth, then closed it. 

It had been a week since Thanksgiving. A very...ordinary week, as things went. They'd gone to class, they'd had dinner, they'd studied together in the evenings. They'd led fencing practice. Athos was still reeling from how normal everything felt, how it _finally_ felt like he had his equilibrium back--the three of them were back in sync, like they'd always been. 

Only now, when they ate dinner, he'd duck in to kiss Aramis over dessert, or Porthos would come up and wrap his arms around Athos' waist from behind as they waited for the grill station to refill. Aramis would wait outside Athos' French class after his own Spanish seminar, and kiss him, and they'd walk to the social sciences building together for their Multifaith Cooperation and Early Childhood Education classes. Porthos held Athos' hand when they walked to dinner with the fencing team. 

He hadn't expected all of that to be so visible, especially on such a queer haven of a campus. It brought back… Well.

It wasn't the first time his every public kiss and touch had been scrutinized, overanalyzed, catalogued and checked and held up to the light.

But he didn't want to _stop._ He didn't want to give up the constant thrumming reassurance of affection and care and love. 

He should probably explain all this. 

"Anne and I were the 'it' couple in high school," he said finally, and dared to look up to see how Aramis and Porthos took that. Porthos' face immediately shadowed, Aramis' lips went thin and flat, and Athos tried to school his own face into something more reassuring. "I'm not saying I want anything to stop, I just--I hadn't thought people would notice so much."

Aramis leaned over, hand outstretched, and Athos took it immediately, grateful for the warm touch. "Is it a problem?" he asked, very seriously, and Athos still sometimes couldn't believe that they'd just accept his feelings like this, no belittling or dismissing. 

"No," he said, even more glad that he could say that and mean it. "It--brings back weird feelings, but it's not like it was. I like being able to--to be public with you."

Porthos was still looking closely at Athos, his face heavy and worried, and Athos smiled at him, drawing on the strength of Aramis' hand in his. After a second, Porthos smiled back, his frown easing. "I don't want you to feel like it's the same," Porthos said, his voice still a little uneasy.

"He just said it's not," d'Artagnan said, chiming in softly just as Athos lost the words to explain. "You don't have to worry."

Porthos quirked an eyebrow. "I think I do."

Athos took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Not about this." Aramis squeezed his hand, and, heartened, Athos could add, "You don't use me for the same things she did."

Aramis' hand closed tightly on his--just on the near edge of painfully--and he sat up. "We aren't _using_ you for anything," he said, his voice scratching harsh.

"No, that wasn't what I--"

"Did she do that?" Aramis' eyes blazed cold and hard, and Athos' stomach lurched with unexpected anxiety.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, very slow and careful, because there was something almost frightening in Aramis' face. "Do we have to?"

Aramis' gaze flickered. "Not right now," he said after a beat, the tension in his shoulders easing into his usual slouch. "But maybe soon."

Porthos blew out his breath across the room, and Athos looked over. D'Artagnan was watching the three of them carefully, eyes darting back and forth between all of them, and Athos took another breath to calm himself. 

"I'm sorry," Aramis said, contrition starting to creep in now. "Sorry. You know I get--about that kind of stuff--I'm sorry."

Porthos unfolded himself from his chair and came over to perch on the arm of the couch. "We just wanna know what not to do," he said, eyes flicking to Aramis. "About--how stuff used to happen, stuff that you don't wanna talk about."

Athos nodded. He could feel his heart wanting to kick up again, and he swallowed, trying to find deep breaths again. He needed to stop hiding from them. This was only going to keep happening if he didn't tell them what had happened--

But the thought of opening his mouth and saying, _What happened was,_ and just spilling it all out--the dread dropped like a rock into his stomach, splashing up fear and nausea and sickness.

Porthos' hand settled on the back of his neck, the anchor to Athos' racing thoughts, and he felt Aramis' hand squeeze gently in his. Athos jerked out of his own head, realizing they were all sitting closer, that d'Artagnan was half out of his chair--

"Breathe," Aramis said softly. "Breathe, Athos, don't worry about it right now."

"I'm sorry," Athos said, on automatic, "I'm sorry, it's fine, sorry--"

"We're not angry," Porthos said, just as gentle.

"Aramis is," Athos heard himself say, and he cringed inwardly the _moment_ he heard it, because--

"Yes," Aramis said, and Athos' heart froze solid in the split second before he continued, "but not with you."

Athos closed his eyes and breathed.

"I hate hearing about the way you've been treated," Aramis said, his voice showing the edges of it even now. "But I'm not ever angry at you. I want to talk about it because I want to help, but we'll do it in your own time."

Athos nodded, his throat too tight to speak, and Porthos' hand pressed heavy and grounding on his neck.

"I just…" Aramis blew out his breath, and Athos had a feeling Aramis and Porthos were communicating silently over his head.

"We keep hitting the same blocks," Porthos said slowly. "It'd be...less tricky if we could talk about some of it, is all."

Athos swallowed, hard. "I know." His voice cracked on the spar of anxiety sticking jagged in his throat, and he swallowed again. "Soon, I hope."

"Okay." Porthos' thumb traced along the tense cords of his neck. "Okay, soon."

"Should I get some water?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos shook his head. He was already so embarrassed that he'd spiraled over something like this--he didn't need them to fetch and carry for him, he wasn't a child--

A loud rattle jerked them all out of the moment, and Athos opened his eyes to see his phone clattering against his keys on the table. The screen lit up with a series of texts, coming one after the other and the other. 

Frowning, Athos reached out to pick it up. They were all from one name--

"Constance?" Aramis asked in concern, leaning over.

[Text message: Constance]  
[Are you home? I need your help]  
[please pick up or text back asap]  
[please, please, help]

"Is she all right?" Porthos started to stand up, alarm creasing his face, and Athos opened his mouth to answer before another text buzzed in his hand.

[Text message: Constance]  
[PLEASE Jacques is here and he's outside and I'm scared someone's going to let him in please come home]

"Fuck," Athos snapped and leapt to his feet, grabbing his keys and bag. "Come on, we've gotta go, now."

-

As they raced across campus, Athos started to worry he might have to rein in the others. Aramis had a vicious streak a mile wide; Athos could already see him composing something sharp and cutting as he strode briskly to keep up with Porthos. Porthos, for his part, seemed to be getting bigger every second--his shoulders were broader than ever with his tension, and Athos could feel him standing taller, making himself bigger and more threatening in ways he never did, unless--

 _Unless someone needs protecting,_ Athos thought, the pit of his stomach heavy and cold at the thought of how many times Porthos had had to do that for _him._

D'Artagnan hadn't said a word, but his face was colder than Athos had ever seen it. His dark eyes were razor-sharp, and there was something in the way he kept flexing his hands that unsettled Athos considerably. That alone was enough to make Athos pull his own body straight, to walk with all the strength and purpose he didn't always feel, because otherwise, something violent was going to happen.

Athos had to handle this. He had to be the one to make this situation go away. 

They heard the yelling before they'd gotten too far--someone shouting, but too far away from the words for anything to be distinct. Still, it made his partners tense even more, made d'Artagnan start to walk faster, and Athos had to practically run to keep himself in front.

Jacques was outside their dorm, standing at the foot of the hill and staring up at the building. Athos could already see windows opening on the facing side, could see people in the dining hall starting to get up and come to the wall side, and then Jacques cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, _"Constance!"_

Athos' hands went numb to the tips of his fingers. Shouting. He was standing down here shouting like some kind of fucking toxic teen romance movie, calling for her like _he thought he was the romantic savior--_

Athos' brain wanted to run and hide, wanted to scream and backpedal and run away because this was too close to home and this was too much--

_"CONSTANCE!"_

"Hey!" Porthos yelled from behind him, and Athos could _feel_ Porthos shifting his weight, getting ready to run, felt Aramis and d'Artagnan ready to follow, and this stupid, stupid, pathetic man was about to be torn to shreds if Athos didn't do something.

This was his home and these people were his responsibility, and Athos couldn't bear it if they had to take the repercussions that a scum person like Jacques would throw at them if they hurt him.

Athos filled his lungs with a galvanizing breath, and took off at a run before any of the others could. _"Jacques, shut your mouth and get away from my dormitory."_

His own voice boomed and echoed off the stone, and Athos hadn't realized he'd been shouting until Jacques turned to him with a flinch of surprise and fear (his natural reflex before his cruel and arrogant self reasserted itself). But Athos wasn't going to care.

He made it to Jacques before any of the others did, grabbed the man by his shoulder and shoved him down the hill, across the drive and away from the building.

"Wait," Jacques protested, "you have to let me--"

"Shut your _fucking mouth_ before I call campus police for harassment," Athos snarled, shoving him away until Jacques was facing him. "Whatever the hell kind of stunt you're trying to pull--"

And to his utter shock, Jacques dropped to his knees on the ground in front of him. "I just want to talk to her, I'm sorry, I have to!"

Athos recoiled, stepping back so quickly he collided with Porthos behind him. He didn't want Jacques on the ground, or on his knees, begging for something he didn't deserve, but--what the _hell?_

"She doesn't want to talk to you," d'Artagnan said, but even he seemed taken aback. 

Jacques gazed up at them in miserable supplication--Athos had never seen him _unshaven_ before, Christ. "But I _need_ to talk to her. I fucked up, I fucked up so badly, I need her back."

"You did fuck up, that's for damn sure," Porthos agreed. His hand came to rest on Athos' shoulder, gentler than Athos had expected, and Athos could breathe a little easier knowing that the potential for awful violence had de-escalated.

"I know." Jacques dropped his head, sinking back on his heels. "Can't you just--see if she'll talk to me?"

Aramis stepped up next to Athos, flanking him. "Of course not." Aramis had an edge to his tone, but the viciousness Athos had been expecting wasn't there. "She knows perfectly well you're here, and if she wants to see you, she'll--"

"I'm here," a voice sighed behind them, and Athos jerked and spun to see Constance standing there. Her face was paler than usual, and she was outside wearing _pajama pants_ and slippers, which she never ever did, but--she didn't look scared. She just looked...tired. "Jacques, what are you doing down there?"

He started to scramble up--and Athos slammed him right back down with the coldest look he'd ever given another human being. "You're going to apologize before you do anything else."

"I'm sorry," Jacques gushed out, reaching for Constance. "I'm sorry, I really am, I--I was angry, I didn't mean anything I said--you're the best thing in my life, you really are, I don't know what I'd do without you."

Constance shifted her weight on her feet. "That's better."

"You can't leave me," he begged, and Athos felt faintly nauseated watching this. "You can't, I need you, please."

"It's not all about you," Porthos said severely, his gaze still hard on Jacques.

"It's all right," Constance sighed, walking forward at last. "It's fine, will you four just--give us a minute, please?"

The last thing Athos wanted to do was tell Constance she wasn't allowed to know her own mind, but he couldn't help the sick, heavy feeling of frustration leaden in his stomach as the three of them watched Constance and Jacques talk from across the road. Jacques wasn't on his knees anymore, but he held Constance's hands in both of his, and he was clearly pleading, and the more they talked the closer she stood to him.

"I hate this," Porthos said low beside him. "I fucking hate it." Porthos and Aramis stood wrapped in each other, Aramis burrowed into Porthos' chest against the cold and Porthos' arms draped around his shoulders. They were both watching, glaring across the road, and Athos wished he could be standing closer to them. But d'Artagnan was determinedly looking everywhere _but_ across the road, and Athos felt like he needed to keep an eye on him.

"He's not gonna change," Porthos went on, low and certain. "He's just gonna make her a bunch of empty promises that are all about him, and he's gonna keep being a manipulative sack of shit, and she's gonna stay with him because she's too kind and it's been too long and she doesn't know what else to do."

"We know, Porthos," Athos said. 

He heard Porthos growl in frustration. "And we're not gonna do anything about it?"

Athos sighed and looked over at him. "Do you have any suggestions that won't be just as manipulative as he can be?"

They looked at each other for a long, unhappy moment, and Athos sighed again and looked away.

Constance and Jacques embraced, then, and Athos heard Aramis blow out a disappointed breath. The two kissed, briefly, and then Jacques headed away down the hill to where Athos could see his car parked. Constance walked slowly back across the street, hands in the stomach pockets of her hoodie, and her eyes were on the ground.

Athos stopped d'Artagnan from walking forward with a single, cutting glance, and stepped forward himself. "Constance?"

She shook herself and looked up at him, and Athos was glad that at least there was still a spark there in her gaze. "Thanks for coming," she said, sounding a little brighter than she had when she came down. "I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Porthos said, deep and comforting, and Aramis murmured an assent.

Constance smiled briefly at him. For a second, her eyes flickered to d'Artagnan, and her smile did a funny thing at the corners--then she looked back at Athos, her face set. "Can I join the fencing team?"

Athos blinked.

Stared at her.

Opened his mouth. "I--what?"

Constance's lips pulled back in an almost-vicious grin. "Jacques agreed," she explained slowly, like she was talking to a child, "that it wasn't fair of him to ask me not to. So. Can I join the fencing team?"

Athos' brain performed a complicated series of loop-the-loops in his head. 

Well. When she put it that way. 

He cleared his throat (forced away the victory cry) and let his wild smile take over his face. "Is Monday too soon?"

Constance launched herself into his arms, and the rest of the afternoon blurred into a riotous haze of celebration. 

Athos had made no bones with his friends about how much he'd wanted Constance to join the team, and most of the team knew her from Res Life or classes. Constance made herself known on campus. So finally getting her on the fencing team was a victory to everyone. The first order of business, naturally, was dinner in Alexander's dining hall with the rest of the team, and an even more raucous round at the pub. 

The toasts went on for ages and ages--Athos did his best to stay sober while the rest of the team was still paying attention to him, setting an example and all that--and everything just kept getting louder and wilder. Athos did his best to stay on the fringes of it; sometimes, he knew, he acted a little too much like Treville, and he wanted everyone to just enjoy themselves without worrying about him being "dad." The team just wanted to surround their newest member with excitement and delight, and with Constance a willing honoree, the team ebbed and flowed between her and the bar and the dance floor.

Which meant it was far too long before Athos realized d'Artagnan was nowhere to be found.

He set his bottle of cider on the counter--the single, now-lukewarm cider he'd been nursing all night--and ducked into the crowd. No d'Artagnan dancing, or sitting with Constance, or playing increasingly-slurred rounds of Cards Against Humanity in the corner--and he couldn't drink here, the campus pub always carded stringently.

Athos swore a blue streak in his head as he edged through the crowd back to where his partners sat at Constance's celebration table. Aramis sat in Porthos' lap, Porthos' arms clasped around his waist like a seatbelt, and Aramis bounced up and down as Porthos jiggled his leg. They looked so loose, easy. Happy. 

Athos tapped Porthos on the shoulder, and Porthos twisted to look at him. His face fell when he saw Athos' face, and whatever concern was there. "Babe?"

"Have you seen d'Artagnan?" Athos half-shouted over the noise.

Porthos frowned, and he twisted in his seat, craning his neck to see over the crowd. Aramis looked over to see what they were doing, and Athos repeated his question, actually shouting this time over a sudden upswing in the music. Aramis shook his head, looking crestfallen, and Porthos gave Athos a helpless shrug.

Athos jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door, the universal _be back-gonna find him_ sign, and Porthos and Aramis nodded. Athos flashed them a reassuring smile, hoping he could fake some confidence onto his face, before he picked his way through the crowd to the front door.

It was even louder _outside_ the pub, and Athos closed his eyes, feeling an introvert's bewildered betrayal at the sight of _another_ party across the hall in the campus center commons. It was a big one--dark, with strobing lights around a DJ on a stage and a massive press of bodies writhing together--and Athos vaguely remembered something from the Res Life meeting about a student association hosting their annual gala tonight. Free admission, too, he thought… Great. Was he going to have to check that whole seething mess for d'Artagnan?

Praying he'd get lucky first, Athos slipped past groups of brightly-bedazzled partiers and headed for the back door. Maybe d'Artagnan had just wanted some air.

Outside, the patio was full of the same people it always was--standing in small groups with their cigarettes, huddled together against the cold, laughing and joking. At first look, he didn't see d'Artagnan with any of the people he recognized--until he realized, no, D'Artagnan sat on one of the low granite blocks that bordered the edge of the campus center, legs drawn up to his chest. 

He was just smoking, was all.

Athos had never seen him with a cigarette before--but that was definitely a pale little American Spirit between d'Artagnan's fingers, a thin trail of smoke streaming up from a glowing ember. Athos walked slowly over, staring at this figure of his friend. He'd never seen d'Artagnan look this still, this quiet, as he smoked silently and stared into space.

"Hey," he said, and D'Artagnan glanced over.

"Hey," d'Artagnan said, a little hoarse, and stubbed out his cigarette on the granite he sat on. "Why'd you come out?"

Athos took a few steps closer, not sure how to handle this very un-d'Artagnanish d'Artagnan. "I was looking for you. Since when do you smoke?"

D'Artagnan laughed humorlessly, drawing his jacket closer around himself. "Since I was too young to get any other kind of substance to get me through my dad's funeral."

"Oh." Athos sat down beside him, suddenly transported back to Thomas' funeral. Athos hadn't let his _age_ stop him from being so visibly stoned out of his mind that no one came within six feet of him, until his parents allowed Sophie to gently steer him out of the church so he could pass out in the car.

"I just needed...something." D'Artagnan groaned, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyebrows. "Sorry. Fuck. I didn't want to do this."

"It's fine." Athos shook himself, pushing the vision of Thomas' cold pale face to the darkest hole of his mind, where it usually lived, and looked at d'Artagnan. "Is tonight all that bad?"

D'Artagnan sighed, resting his chin on his elbows, and fixed Athos with a dull, tired stare. "What do you think."

Athos reached over and silently gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder.

D'Artagnan ducked his head, pressed his forehead to forearms so his face was hidden, and let out a sigh that rose in a cloud in the chill. "I thought she'd _left_ him, Athos. She _said_ she'd--" He broke off then, swallowing the sound with a hiccup, and Athos wondered what the end of that sentence was going to be. Since when did Constance talk to d'Artagnan about her relationship with Jacques?

"And I hate seeing her like that," d'Artagnan added, a little quieter. "Like she was this morning, all sad and exhausted. It's not--it shouldn't--"

"I know." Athos didn't know what else to say.

"Did you ever--" D'Artagnan broke off, biting his lip, then just plunged ahead-- "Did you ever figure out how to make it not hurt, when Aramis was still--being Aramis?"

Athos had to take a moment to breathe around the sudden, painful lump in his throat. Well. "I wouldn't recommend the ways I chose," he said slowly, trying not to think about how many bottles of vodka he'd surreptitiously snuck into the recycling over the years. "Or lung cancer, for that matter."

D'Artagnan flicked his crumpled cigarette off the block and into the bushes.

Athos nudged him with his elbow, and flashed d'Artagnan a faint smile when his friend's eyes met his. "Or littering."

D'Artagnan actually laughed, elbowing Athos right back. "Geez, _dad,_ I get it."

Athos smiled at him, and d'Artagnan grinned a little sheepishly back. Athos nodded, patting d'Artagnan's shoulder again, and drew his hand back. "It gets less sharp, after a while," he said then, softer. "And if you stay busy, you won't notice. It was always better...having him in my life the way he chose to have me, than to build up resentment with wishing."

D'Artagnan's smile softened, and he nodded after a moment. "I know I don't own her," he said, twisting his shoelaces with one finger. "I just wish...she knew she could have something better."

"She does." Athos had seen enough of his parent's interactions to know, though, that just _knowing_ there were other options wasn't always enough to overcome the all-encompassing inertia, or fear, or whatever else it was that kept people married or in love with terrible people. "And if we just support her as she starts finding her feet, she'll do something about it."

The Constance of three months ago would never have joined the fencing team. Something had already started to shift, Athos could tell. He just hoped it kept moving, little bits at a time, until everything was different.

"Athos!"

They both started in surprise, turning to the door in automatic response to that shout.

"There you are!" Constance was flushed red as her wine had been. She was still on her feet, though Athos could see both Porthos and Aramis' arms around her waist as the three of them came across the patio to where Athos and d'Artagnan sat. "Oh, d'Artagnan, we were looking for you, too!"

"Oh," d'Artagnan got out, slightly strangled, as Constance flopped herself down on the block between them and put her arms around both of their shoulders. 

"Having fun?" Athos asked, glancing to his boyfriends. Aramis nodded minutely, his eyes flashing exaggeratedly wide for a moment, and Porthos mimed knocking back a few drinks as he grinned at Athos. 

_"So_ much fun," Constance said, beaming at him. "We're going to that party in the commons now, I came to make sure you're coming, too."

It was Athos' turn to stumble out an "oh," as Constance pushed him and d'Artagnan both upright and hooked herself between them like she'd just done with Porthos and Aramis. "Oh, we're--we're all going?"

 _"Yes,"_ Constance declared, steering him and d'Artagnan back toward the door. "I want to dance, and I want _you_ to dance with me--" She tapped her head against poor d'Artagnan's, who blushed even deeper scarlet than Constance's hair. "And I want to watch _you_ have a nice time with your _boyfriends,_ mister-no-partying-in-front-of-people."

Athos fixed the boyfriends in question with suspicious looks. "Is that so."

Porthos grinned shamelessly at him. "Hey, we didn't put her up to this."

"Apparently these are the rules of a Constance party," Aramis said loftily, hooking his own arm into Athos' free one. "We don't make the rules, Athos."

"I see," Athos drawled, giving into it as they propelled him inside. 

What a delightful night this was turning out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anybody who might see themselves in Constance's situation--you're not the only person this has happened to, you haven't brought it on yourself, and people love you and want to help. <3 It's not okay, it's not "normal" (though it's painfully common), and you deserve better. [There are places to help you if you don't feel safe.](http://womenshealth.gov/violence-against-women/am-i-being-abused/index.html#a)
> 
> To all others, [you know where to find me!](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) also, I will be moving and starting graduate school in a few months, so it's time for me to shamelessly plug [Dumas Musketeers stickers and journals and more stuff just added (!!)](http://www.redbubble.com/people/cherryfeather/works/15523894-dumas-musketeers-fencing-gear) if anyone feels like supporting a poor writer. I am already blown away by how generous folks have been supporting the story and the shop and everything; I just, wow. Wow, y'all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty dancing, dirty talking, and dirty tricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you absolutely everyone for your love and support!! The comments are so so so helpful and encouraging in the rough time I'm having right now, and thank you for your patience as this story chugs along. <3

The music thudded through the room, bass so heavy Athos could feel it in his chest, and he took the last sip of cold water from his tiny plastic cup. He regretted it as soon as he'd done it--he could have nursed it for longer, pretended the cup was still full, used it as the excuse.

Now he was just standing against a wall watching people dance and holding an empty cup. He wasn't even drunk.

Did he want to be drunk? 

He hadn't had to seriously ask himself that question in a long time. The answer, after all, had always been yes. Drunk was preferable to having to freshly experience...anything. 

If there was anyone who probably needed to be drunk right now, it was d'Artagnan. Athos had lost sight of him and Constance a few minutes ago--they'd disappeared into the crush of bodies near the stage with the rest of the team--but Constance was clearly a handsy drunk and Athos had no idea how his young friend was handling it. 

He knew how _he'd_ have handled it, if Porthos or Aramis had ever been so inclined to get drunk and dance all over him before now, but--he didn't think d'Artagnan was the type to get incredibly embarrassed and run. D'Artagnan, for all his occasional brash impulsiveness, never ran from something he wanted. And Porthos and Aramis were at least close, if d'Artagnan needed them.

Porthos and Aramis. Athos had lost sight of them, too, when he'd gone to get water. They both knew this wasn't entirely his scene, and he knew neither of them begrudged his needing to get a little personal space. The dance floor was too claustrophobic for Athos on his best days, and today had already been a little...trying. But Aramis and Porthos never passed up an opportunity for a party--and Porthos had been craving a chance like this with Aramis for as long as Athos had known him.

Athos squinted against the glare of the laser lights and tried to pick his boyfriends out of the crowds. The team had been near the big speaker in the front when he'd left...Aramis and Porthos wouldn't have moved far, probably. 

Athos hoped they were having fun, and not waiting for him to get back. He'd be happy just to stay here for the rest of the night, if it meant the two of them could enjoy their first big party together. (Well. Maybe not stay _here,_ he'd probably go up to the ground floor computers or go drink in peace in the pub now that the party had moved over here, but he wasn't going to just leave them and go home.)

But then the mass of writhing bodies in front of him shifted just enough that he could see Aramis and Porthos, and Athos forgot that he wanted a drink.

Holy _God._

Aramis' back was plastered to Porthos' front, one arm hooked up around Porthos' neck, and Porthos' hands rested low on Aramis' waist. Their bodies rocked and swayed together, and their skin already gleamed with sweat in the pulse of the low light. Aramis' shirt was dark with it, wet and stuck to his chest, and Athos could see every muscle in Porthos' abdomen rippling as he moved with Aramis.

Athos' stomach lurched like he'd been punched. God. He'd never seen them like this. Or--he had, but never together. He'd watched Aramis dirty dancing on strangers for years, and he'd occasionally glimpsed Porthos letting himself go at a party, but--not the two of them at once. And never, ever together.

Aramis' face shone with a blissed-out smile, his eyelashes dark on his cheeks, as he swiveled his hips with Porthos. It was almost pornographic, the way Aramis was moving--it was sex, _literally_ , Athos had seen him move that way when they were fucking--and Athos couldn't tell from here, but he wondered if Aramis was hard. Athos would be. He was half-hard now just watching. 

He couldn't see Porthos' expression, because Porthos had buried his face in Aramis' tangled curls. Athos would have, too. The sweet smell of Aramis' shampoo, and the sharpness of his sweat--there was a reason Athos loved to hold him from behind, and it wasn't just the glorious shape of his body. Porthos was holding onto Aramis as tightly as he could while the two of them were still moving, keeping him close, keeping them in sync.

Jesus fuck, Athos realized, he was just standing against the wall _rhapsodizing_ while he watched them practically dry-hump each other on the dance floor--how was this his life now?

How was this so _good?_

Aramis' head rolled back onto Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos pressed his face into the curve of Aramis' neck--and then he dipped his hips and wrapped one arm all the way around Aramis' waist, holding Aramis to him as the song changed and grew hotter, the beat harder. 

Porthos was the one moving them now, holding Aramis up and keeping their bodies locked together. His hips kept the rhythm, knees loose as they rocked, and Athos' mouth went dry as he watched. He'd never really _watched_ Porthos dance with someone, not tight and dirty like this. But Porthos--Porthos was good at this. Porthos moved in perfect sync to the music, and from here, Athos could see how Aramis went weak for it. How his jaw fell slack and his knees trembled. 

Aramis turned in the curl of Porthos' arms, and both his arms came up to wrap around Porthos' neck. He drew Porthos down to him, rested their foreheads together, and Athos watched Porthos' fingertips slip to Aramis' hips and dig in. When they rocked together this time, it was rougher--a little filthier, thighs locked together and grinding, and Athos swallowed hard.

Aramis tilted his head back, and the lights lit up the curve of his neck in neon. Athos wanted to sink his teeth into it. Porthos leaned in and pressed his lips to Aramis' collarbone, and Athos swallowed at the sight of the sweat dripping on the back of his neck. They looked sinful--gloriously so. They moved so perfectly together.

Porthos slid one hand to the back of Aramis' neck, fingers stroking along the tendons there, and he drew Aramis back in close until they could kiss. The bottom dropped out of Athos' stomach as he watched Aramis arch into Porthos' body, as Porthos held Aramis' hips and cradled his head and fucked Aramis' mouth with his tongue as they rocked together. 

He could see Aramis gasping when they pulled apart, saw Aramis clutch at Porthos' shoulders and stare at him with hazy eyes. Porthos just grinned at him, stroked the sides of Aramis' face and rested their foreheads together as he hitched Aramis' thigh up a little more onto his. 

Athos loved the way they smiled at each other, the way Aramis' body turned slinky and loose as he smiled back, as he draped himself over Porthos and arched into the beat. 

Athos knew this snapping, heavy beat the DJ had spun into, he realized, when he saw Aramis' lips moving. Porthos' gaze had sharpened, his hands loosening so Aramis could dance how he wanted--and Aramis was dancing properly, syncing the sharp snaps of his hips to the beat, swiveling in tiny circles against Porthos. 

They had fucked, numerous times, to this song, when they'd let the album play through over and over the night Aramis gave them a lap dance. Athos remembered, vividly--he could tell Porthos and Aramis did, too. 

_Driver, roll up the partition, please_

Aramis spun so his back was pressed against Porthos' front, and as Porthos' hands slid loose to stroke over Aramis' chest, Aramis dropped--wriggling down almost all the way to the floor, knees spread as he kept his hands on Porthos' hips for balance. Porthos' mouth fell open in a harsh pant, and Aramis looked up at him through his eyelashes, arching his neck back as he effortlessly pushed himself back up, thighs flexing in his skintight jeans. 

Porthos grabbed on and _held_ , and Aramis plastered himself to Porthos' chest, keeping up the sinuous, undulating ripple of his body as he leaned back into Porthos. 

Athos could see both of their faces, now, with the way they were dancing, the way they were holding each other. And Aramis' lips were moving, singing along--

And there was something _vulnerable_ in his face, something sad and almost yearning, as he curved back into Porthos' arms, and Athos turned his ears back on for the music.

_I just wanna be the girl you like_   
_The kind of girl you like_

Porthos' arms wrapped tighter around Aramis' waist, holding him body-to-body, so much _care_ in his face mixed plain with the desire. Aramis turned his face, seeking, pressing his forehead to Porthos' temple, like he needed the comfort. Like he needed to know Porthos was still holding him.

Athos threw his cup into the trash can and pushed off from the wall, not tearing his eyes from them as he made his way through the crowd. Aramis looked so shy suddenly, so hesitant and uncertain, curling into Porthos' body, and Athos _needed_ to hold him.

Porthos pressed his cheek to Aramis', murmuring something, and his eyes flickered away from Aramis' face, scanning the crowd--

Athos realized Porthos was looking for _him_ the moment before their eyes met, and Porthos' face lit up with relief. 

Porthos pressed his lips to Aramis' ear, said something, and Aramis' eyes flickered open just as Athos slipped through the last few knots of people. 

Aramis' mouth dropped open, his eyes going wide, and Athos stepped into his space like a missing puzzle piece. Aramis drew him in immediately, hooked him close with arms around his neck, and Athos' hands fell to Aramis' waist. 

"I couldn't just watch," he said, low and close enough to hear over the throbbing beat, and the fragile joy that lit up Aramis' face was the most precious thing he'd ever seen. 

Porthos' hand landed on Athos' waist, then, reeled him in even closer until Aramis was well and truly held between them--until Athos was close enough for Porthos to drag him in for a kiss over Aramis' shoulder. The booming bass drowned out the sound, but as Porthos cupped Athos' head and kissed him messy and deep, Athos felt Aramis' groan vibrate through where their chests pressed together. 

It was so easy, then, for Athos to move. To hold onto Porthos with one hand, Aramis in the other, and fall into their rhythm. To feel Aramis shudder and slide between them, as Porthos set a grinding sway and Athos held on for the ride. 

He did know this song. So it was easy, too, to lean in and press his lips to Aramis' neck, and then whisper the few lines of French along with the music. 

Aramis caught his breath, his lips parting in a huff of air, and he arched into Athos' body. Athos pushed Aramis' hair behind his ear, feeling bolder, and murmured the rest, the French slipping honeyed and easy over his tongue. 

He could hear Aramis' moan over the music, this time, and he saw Porthos' lips moving in a pattern of reverent curses. Athos kissed Aramis' neck, because what else could he do, and Aramis' hand slid back to clutch at Athos' hip. They rocked together again, hot and hard, and Athos couldn't believe this was real, that they could be like this together now, in the middle of a crowd but with no one else in the world--

This time, when the refrain whispered _I just wanna be the girl you like,_ Aramis arched between the two of them in a sinfully curved slide, all his fragile vulnerability gone. 

Athos tightened his hands on Aramis' hips, kissing his neck again, and pressed his forehead to Aramis' temple. "All right?"

Aramis twisted around so he could speak straight into Athos' ear. "Felt a little unsure," he said, lips brushing the sensitive skin, hot and warm enough to make Athos shiver. "Don't anymore." 

Athos grinned and kissed the closest bit of skin he could reach. Aramis hummed, swiveling his hips again, then pressed close again. 

"Talk dirty in French again," he said in Athos' ear, half-called over the deafening thud of the music, and something electric crackled down Athos' spine.

He swallowed, hard, and cupped Aramis' jaw, tracing his fingertips over the proud line of bone. _"You like the French?"_ he murmured, feeling surprisingly filthy at using his near-mother tongue for something like this.

Aramis groaned, dropping his head onto Athos' shoulder, and rocked forward into Porthos. "Fuck, that's hot."

Porthos' lips drew back in a grin, and he pressed closer to Athos, sandwiching Aramis between them. Athos' heart seized as Porthos looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes--seized then slammed even harder at the heat there. 

Porthos leaned forward, nuzzled at Aramis' temple, then pressed even closer so Athos could hear him, too. "We gettin' dirty again?"

That--the low growl of Porthos' voice with the bass of the music thudding in counterpoint--that undid Athos completely.

Athos reached up to swipe a drop of sweat from Aramis' neck. He wiped it off with his thumb, pressing a little harder than necessary, and Aramis gasped and shivered. Porthos watched him, eyes hot and lips sharp in a smirk, and Athos met Porthos' gaze and held it as he sucked his own thumb into his mouth and licked up Aramis' sweat. 

"Yes," Athos said, his own voice rough, when he pulled away. "Time to go home."

Urgency thudded in his blood with his heartbeat, and all he wanted to do was go. They didn't bother trying to find any of the others, making their excuses--the party was still in full swing, still loud and boisterous and edging on an orgy in most of the dark places, and they wouldn't be missed. So Athos let Porthos grab his hand and pull him on through the crowd and out into the hall--then slam him up against the wall and kiss him while Aramis ducked into the pub to grab their coats where they'd left them.

"None of that," Aramis said breathlessly when he found them, shoving their coats between them to break them apart. "When we got together, I promised myself that meant I wasn't ever gonna fuck someone in a bathroom at a party again, don't make me a liar."

Porthos' deep bell of a laugh rang in the hallway as they all shrugged their coats on. "Do we even wanna know why you made that promise to yourself?"

"You do not." Aramis tugged Athos' coat straight once he'd fixed his own, then grabbed Athos' shoulder and manhandled him down the hallway toward the back door. "Come on, home, _please._ "

They'd raced each other across campus before, but never quite like this--not running, not exactly, but hurrying on through the night, reaching for hands or fingertips whenever anyone got too far ahead. Athos' heart was in his throat, his heart stuttering in excitement, and he barely noticed other people they passed. He only had eyes for Aramis' flush, for the glow of Porthos' smile.

Another org was having a movie night in the ground floor common room, so they managed to behave themselves catching the elevator with three other people. Athos could feel Aramis' fingers playing with one of the back pockets on his jeans, even as Porthos' hand on his waist tapped impatiently hidden under his jacket. 

God, they probably weren't fooling anyone, Athos thought desperately as the elevator crawled slowly up. Everyone standing here with them had to know the three of them were close-lipped and impatient because they were trying to get home to fuck. Athos could feel his own flush creeping up from under his scarf--they were being so completely shameless. Somebody had to be noticing, right?

"You," Porthos burst out as they finally closed the bedroom door behind them, "have the _worst fucking poker face_ when you're thinking about sex, Athos, Jesus Christ--"

 

"I'm not used to this!" Athos protested as they all stripped out of their coats as fast as they'd put them on. "I'm not usually the one hustling across campus to throw themselves into bed, I just--"

"Yeah, speaking of that," Porthos said, ripping his own shirt off over his head, and he reached for Athos and yanked him forward into a deep, bruising kiss. 

"Mmm, yes," Aramis hummed from behind him, and a moment later Aramis' front was plastered to Athos' back, his mouth hot and wet on the nape of Athos' neck. Athos made a stifled sound into Porthos' mouth, his own hands coming up to clutch at Porthos' biceps (he couldn't get his hands around them all the way, he realized in a dizzy haze, and kissed him harder), and Porthos growled low in his chest, 

"Before you get distracted," Aramis said, sliding his hands across Athos' pecs, down toward his abs, "I have an idea for tonight's entertainment."

Athos and Porthos broke their kiss to stare at each other with wide eyes, gasping for air. Athos could feel Porthos hard against him, felt his cock jerk at Aramis' voice, and it still felt amazing and new and unreal having Aramis here with them like this. 

"Yes?" Athos croaked, tipping his head back until he could feel Aramis' forehead against his hair. 

"We are going to do absolutely filthy things to each other," Aramis murmured, rubbing his nose against the grain of Athos' hair. "And you will call the shots, Athos, with one little detail."

Athos looked wildly at Porthos, whose lust-filled stare was no help at all, and twisted to look at Aramis. "Yes?"

"You're not allowed to speak," Aramis told him, bright-eyes and already breathless, "unless it's in French. Okay?"

Athos swallowed hard, already feeling excitement spark up his spine. _"Agreed,"_ he said softly, sure to rasp the guttural 'r' in his _d'accord_ as much as he could.

Aramis shivered, pressing closer to him. "Fuck, I love that. It just sounds so good."

"They do call it the language of love, Aramis," Porthos reminded him, gently tugging Athos' button-up down his arms. Athos helped him, shrugging it off, and looked back to Porthos. 

Porthos gazed steadily at him, his dark eyes burning a hole into Athos, and Athos reached up to run his thumb over Porthos' bottom lip He felt curiously powerful, suddenly. 

_"You like this, too?"_ he asked, feeling the familiar mixture of vowels and consonants flow over his tongue, lingering at the back more than English did.

Porthos' tongue darted out to brush the pad of Athos' thumb, and he grinned at him. "Yeah," he said. "I like it, too."

Athos arched an eyebrow at him, resting his other hand on Porthos' shoulder. _"See, you understand more than you think."_

Then he gasped, his back arching in surprise, as Aramis pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. The movement pressed him against Porthos, who bent and kissed him swiftly. Athos moaned softly, going still against Porthos as Aramis' hands settled on his shoulders, holding him in place while Aramis kissed a path around the side of his neck.

"Talk to us," Porthos whispered against his lips. "C'mon."

Athos swallowed, again, as Aramis' lips traced over the very top of his collarbone. His heart was slamming against his ribs, hard and dizzying. _"I don't talk very much during sex to begin with,"_ he pointed out, already starting to feel unsteady on his feet. _"I don't know what to say."_

"If that was some bullshit about not knowing what to say," Aramis murmured against his neck, his breath rocketing a shiver down Athos' spine, "we won't understand a word, so just say anything."

Athos reached back to push his hand through Aramis' hair, just to ground himself, to hold on. Aramis hummed in pleasure and kissed his neck again. Athos looked up at Porthos, letting his head tip back, then he closed his eyes. _He_ knew what he was saying, even if they didn't. It was easier with his eyes closed. _"There isn't a way to put it all into words,"_ he said, his voice low and quiet, like a secret.

Porthos let out a soft sound, and Athos felt the air shift as he leaned closer. Porthos' lips touched his forehead, his cheeks, and Athos sighed. His skin felt too tight, hot and shivery and not containing the sudden restlessness under his muscles, and he tightened the hand he had on Porthos' shoulder. _"This is very sweet,"_ he said, and opened his eyes to find Porthos looking at him. _"But if you're going to insist I talk this whole time, I'm going to need some things to talk about."_

Porthos grinned at him. "Sounds businesslike."

Athos nodded solemnly, and tugged gently on Aramis' hair with the hand he still had buried there. _"Take me to bed,"_ he said, enunciating very carefully, and tilted his head towards it.

Aramis' smile spread toothy and wicked, and he and Porthos shared a look. "I think he wants to move this to the bed," Aramis purred, and Porthos laughed low against Athos' temple.

"Yeah, I think he does."

And then Athos' brain shorted out because Porthos _picked him up_ and _carried him to bed,_ and Athos barely could stay on his back for a second when they joined him because it was just that imperative that he crawl into Porthos' lap and kiss him breathless for it. Athos could barely keep a grip on himself for anything, period--he felt like he was going to fall any second. Freed from the constraints of their understanding, it was like teetering on the edge of a terrifying precipice. Terrifying, because--he wasn't sure if he was going to fall if he fell off. 

He was afraid he might fly. 

"Easy, love, easy," Aramis murmured, drawing Athos gently away from Porthos. "You're shaking, it's fine, we don't have to--"

_"I want to,"_ Athos interrupted, turning to throw himself on Aramis instead. _"I want to, I do."_

"Are you liking this?" Porthos asked, stroking his hands restlessly up and down Athos' abdomen. "Is it good?"

Athos nodded, tilting his head back until it rested on Porthos' shoulder. _"It's a little scary. But I like it."_

Aramis hummed, leaning forward to kiss and bite at Athos' breastbone. The three of them, on their knees on the bed, naked and close and holding each other like this--it made Athos dizzy with how good it felt. It was just a different permutation of their usual, but with the language they'd chosen to play with, Athos felt so much more keyed-up, so much more ready for anything.

"I like hearing you talk without hesitating," Aramis murmured against his skin, before biting openmouthed at the jut of his collarbones. Athos gasped and hissed out a breath, reaching up to clutch at Aramis' hair again--to bury his fingers in those dark curls and tug, to feel Aramis shudder and bite him again, harder.

"You sound so good," Porthos said, his breath hot and damp against Athos' neck. "Love watching the two of you together."

_"I remember the first time you watched us kiss, we had to stop."_ Athos' voice cracked from dryness, and he licked his lips, had to swallow. _"You said we looked so good, then, too."_

Aramis moaned against Athos' skin, hooking his fingers into the tender skin of Athos' hips. "Fuck, that does sound so good."

Athos couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth so easily. _"I like feeling sexy for you,"_ he said, his heart spiking as he finally let the words out into the air. _"I've never felt like I was worth looking at. Not the way you look at me."_

"You are too fucking much, babe," Porthos growled into his skin. "You really like this, you like talking like this?"

_"Yes."_ Athos flailed a hand back until it landed on Porthos' thigh, and he dug his fingers in and squeezed. _"If it's half a chance to get this out--to say how much I--"_

He broke off on a choke as Porthos' mouth landed on his neck and started to suck a mark there, and all he could do was groan into Aramis' hair for a long, long minute. 

Aramis laughed breathlessly. "Even your moaning's a little different, shit."

_"I can't believe you keep track of how I moan."_

"You taste so good," Porthos slurred into his skin, mouthing bites and sucking kisses against the back of his neck. "Wanna keep you making those sounds, keep talking--"

Porthos' hips hitched against Athos' back, then, and Athos gasped out and shook when he felt Porthos hard against him--he scrabbled with the hand he had on Porthos' leg and reached back, grabbed at Porthos' ass and yanked at him, trying to get him to rock into him again. Porthos bit off a curse as he got the point, and Athos felt heat cascade down his spine as Porthos started rolling his hips against him.

Fuck. _Fuck._ Every thrust of Porthos' hips sent his hard cock against the top of Athos' ass, against the small of his back, and Athos couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything but pant, and _want_ , and hold onto them both for dear life.

"I love it when you ask for shit like this," Porthos growled hot against his neck. "Love it when you egg us on, when you let us know you _really_ want it--"

_"I want it,"_ Athos gasped, pulling Aramis' face up to kiss him sloppily, just to crash their lips together and pant. _"I never know how to ask, never feel like I'm worth it, but I always, always want it."_

"I need to get you naked now," Aramis hissed, scrambling with the last of Athos' clothes, and all the conversation stopped for a minute as they stripped with feverish haste. Athos' whole mind was _skin_ and _please_ and _yes_ , and as soon as they were naked Aramis was back on him, kissing him like he'd starved for Athos in the few seconds they weren't touching.

"Oh, fuck, look at you both," Porthos groaned, sounding helpless, sounding _wrecked,_ and they broke their kiss to turn and look at him. Athos thought for a second he was hallucinating, because no real sight could ever be this beautiful: Porthos, gorgeous and flushed and sweating, sitting back on his heels and stroking his dripping cock, just for the sight of the two of them kissing.

He half-laughed when he saw them staring, shrugged helplessly and didn't stop, and Aramis' gut-punched sound of lust was just too much for Athos to take.

There was nothing for Athos to do then but topple Aramis backward onto the bed and kiss him hot and sloppy and _dirty,_ shoving his tongue into Aramis' mouth and rocking his hips forward into the cradle of Aramis' legs. He wanted to show off, he wanted to give Porthos a show, he wanted to give Aramis the chance to feel as beautiful and loved as he did right now.

Aramis moaned into his mouth and hooked his legs around the outside of Athos' thighs, welcoming him in, pulling Athos down and clawing greedily at his back. Athos took it all with a groan, arched into Aramis' touch and let his hips grind against Aramis' erection, and couldn't believe how _good_ it felt. 

And then the bed dipped and Porthos was behind him, stroking a hand up his spine almost reverently. Athos broke away from Aramis with a gasp, shivering, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He felt held between them, suspended.

It felt so good.

"Come on," Aramis breathed, pushing himself up on one elbow and reaching up for Athos. "Come on, tell us, what do you need?"

Athos could only pant against the palm of Aramis' hand for a moment, shuddering on his knees with his fingers flexing helplessly in the sheets. Porthos' hands landed on his hips and he cried out into Aramis' touch--he couldn't help it, he felt his body shaking and jerking without his conscious decision to, just for the warmth of Porthos' touch and the feeling of Porthos at his back--

"God, you're fucking gorgeous like this," Porthos rasped behind him, sounding as gone as Athos felt. "We've got you, it's okay--"

And he pressed forward, his skin a solid wall of heat against Athos' thighs his back his _ass_ and then Athos was moaning out words against Aramis' skin that he never thought he'd ever say--he couldn't stop, he was--he couldn't--he had to-- 

_"I want you to fuck me,"_ he sobbed out in French, shaking on his hands and knees and pressing his face into Aramis' hand and slurring the words against Aramis' palm, turning his face into the touch-- _"God, I want you, I want to feel you there, I want you to fuck me so badly but I'm so scared to ask you--"_

"Fuck, babe, you sound wrecked," Porthos ground out, holding him and rocking against him and Athos sobbed again, out of his mind with needing it. 

"Come down here," Aramis gasped, pulling on Athos' shoulders until Athos dropped, and then he was sprawled over Aramis, hips jerking needily against Aramis' own as he moaned more pure filth into Aramis' hair, shoulder, pillow, unable to stop himself.

_"I think about it all the time,"_ he choked, shaking and shivering between them. _"I never stop, not when we're together, thinking about how it would be--I want it so much, I can't breathe sometimes, Porthos, please--"_

"Fucking _fuck,_ " he heard Porthos hiss, and then Porthos' heat was scalding close again, his cock sliding in the small of Athos' back and his palm pressing that burning heat against Athos' skin--

Athos let out a low, keening whine at the feeling of it--of Porthos holding his own erection against Athos' skin, making a channel so he could grind against the soft skin of Athos' back, skin that had never been touched like this, so sensitive Athos felt the heat and the pressure of it radiating out through every capillary. 

"Oh, oh, Porthos, are you--" Aramis groaned, breaking off like speech was just too much for him, and he choked out a half-gasped sound of need and dragged Athos back into a messy kiss.

"Whatever you're saying, say it again," Porthos growled, his voice so low and rough that Athos almost didn't understand. But then he did, and it wrenched another groan from him as he hitched his hips up and back, pressing as close as he could.

_"I think about you fucking me all the time."_ Athos barely recognized his own voice, and then Porthos was ramming against him, his hips pounding into Athos almost like the real thing, his cock rubbing hard and slick on his back, and Athos was gone, words spilling out in desperate French made even more incoherent with his own need. _"It would be so good and I don't deserve it at all but I want it so much--I want to feel you take me apart, I want to be_ fucking _destroyed with it, I want you to fuck me harder than you've ever fucked anyone in your life, Porthos, Aramis, both of you, you could take_ turns _if you wanted to, you could do anything to me at all and I'd thank you for it, fuck--!"_

"I need you to touch me," Aramis gasped, half-sobbed, writhing on the bed underneath him--yanking desperately at Athos' arm until Athos had the presence of mind to shift his weight and reach between them. His hand found Aramis' rock-hard and dripping cock, and Aramis threw his head back and _yelled_ as Athos grabbed him and squeezed. 

Porthos let out a ragged, strangled sound, his hips pistoning against Athos' back, and Athos could feel his thighs trembling where they pressed against Athos' own, could feel every inch of Porthos jerking and straining. "I can't, _fuck,"_ Porthos swore, as Athos worked sloppily at Aramis' cock and Aramis twisted and thrashed and sounded like he was _dying_ and every nerve ending in Athos' body blazed with sensation and need. 

He needed--he wanted--oh, _fuck_ , he just had to say it-- _"Come on me, I need you both to come, please, fuck, just do it, let me feel like I belong for once in my fucking life, please--"_

Porthos dipped his hips and _slammed_ against Athos, again and again, and Aramis yelped as Athos' hand and whole body jerked violently, going rigid as he felt something huge and terrifying building in the pit of his stomach--

For the briefest fraction of a second, the long burning length of Porthos' cock slid along the crease of his ass.

Athos came on a wordless yell torn from the deepest part of himself, screaming and _screaming_ and spilling untouched all over Aramis' stomach and chest. 

He could hear Porthos swearing desperately, Aramis gasping out high and sharp, but it was all through a cloud of heat and light--his ears were buzzing, he couldn't see, he could only hold himself between the two of them and gasp for breath. He felt liquid heat spilling over him, his back and stomach, and all he could think was _yes, yes, yes_.

When he came back into his skin, Porthos was panting against the back of Athos' neck, one arm wrapped around Athos' chest to hold them together, and Aramis lay beneath him, slumped in the sheets and staring up at them through heavy-lidded eyes.

Athos tilted his head back, pressing into Porthos' touch, and Porthos groaned softly, kissed the nape of Athos' neck and his sweat-soaked hair.

Aramis' eyes were sleepy and dark, and he reached up to twine his fingers through Athos' dripping curls. "Can I hold you?" he asked softly, and Athos shivered in reflex at the hoarse rasp of Aramis' voice. "Do you mind if we're sticky for a bit?"

Athos sank down against Aramis' chest without another thought, because sticky be damned (and Athos still wasn't sure how much he wanted to tell them _I love it, I want to feel it on my skin, don't take it away yet_ ). Porthos chuckled and slid down with him, on his side so he could hold the both of them, and Athos buried his face in the space between Porthos and Aramis' bodies. 

_"Can I stay like this?"_ he asked, surprised by how hoarse his own voice was.

"Hmm?" Porthos stroked Athos' hair, and Athos' limbs slackened even more at the soft dig of Porthos' fingertips into Athos' scalp. "You comfortable, babe? Wanna stay here for a bit?"

Athos nodded helplessly, just needing it, and Porthos murmured soft comfort while Aramis mouthed kisses against Athos' shoulder. Athos wished his brain would just go quiet, the way it had when he'd been between them the first time, but instead he couldn't stop _thinking_ \--couldn't stop himself from going over everything he wanted to be saying, over and over in his head.

He swallowed hard. Aramis and Porthos were pressed so closely against him. Could they feel his heart racing?

Athos licked his lips, opened them to try and put the words out into the air. 

"Je vous aime," he whispered.

For a moment, he didn't think either of them had heard. Then he felt Porthos very slowly release a breath, and Aramis' arm tightened around him, holding Athos even closer than before.

They knew. They already knew how he felt, and he knew how they felt. Why was his heart pounding so hard?

Why couldn't he say it in the language they actually _shared?_

Then Aramis kissed his hair again, and Athos' heart quivered in his chest. "Te amo," Aramis said, his rough voice as tender as Athos had ever heard it. "Te amo, te amo."

Porthos let out a soft breath. "And I love you both, too," he said, his voice cracking at the edges, too, and Athos closed his eyes, curled into the both of them.

He'd say it, _really_ say it, soon. Soon, he could do it.

\- - -

"Cinq minutes," he mumbled into his pillow when he felt someone tugging at his shoulder.

Porthos' low laugh washed over him, and Athos nearly purred at the sound. "You can go back to English, babe. Sunday practice in half an hour, you gonna get up?"

Athos groaned, turning onto his stomach and burying his face in his pillow. He'd slept so heavily he almost felt hungover. "Why did I schedule a Sunday practice again?"

The bed dipped and Aramis' long fingers slid through his hair. "Because we have an invitational next weekend." Aramis' soft lips pressed at the nape of his neck, and Athos felt his body waking up despite himself. "Because you're a brilliant captain who wants his team to do their best. Because you probably hadn't planned on getting fucked into next Tuesday last night."

Athos surrended and rolled over, meeting Aramis' grin with a smile of his own. "I guess that's right."

Aramis was already dressed, Porthos halfway there, and Athos felt his heart spreading soft and gooey in his chest again at the sight of them curled over him. "Thanks for letting me sleep," he said, reaching out to lace his fingers with Porthos'.

Porthos grinned almost shyly at him. "Thanks for last night."

Aramis laughed delightedly when Athos blushed, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "We'll have to do that again."

Athos sat up, tugging Porthos in for a good morning kiss as well. "Yes," he said, and hauled himself out of bed to go shower.

They were late enough that most of the team seemed to have already headed out, and Athos enjoyed the walk over to the sports building in the aftermath of last night. Aramis and Porthos couldn't stop touching him, it seemed, and for once he felt like he could accept all the gentle hair brushes, handholding, cheek nuzzling, without getting too worked up or embarrassed.

"You're so chill this morning," Porthos even said, smiling at Athos as they headed out of the locker room toward the fencing room. "Feeling good?"

Athos nodded, giving Porthos' hand a squeeze. "Had a good time last night," he said simply. 

He meant it. He felt lighter, he felt more ready to face everything today. Just getting to _talk,_ to get to say some of what he wanted, even if they hadn't been able to understand more than just what mattered most--

"Good," Aramis said fiercely, his grin bright and wicked. "Because I definitely want to--ask you…"

He trailed off, and when Athos looked over to him, Aramis' smile had faded. He was staring down the hall to the fencing room, and Athos followed his gaze.

Treville stood at the door of the studio, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, and Athos had a stomach-dropping sense of _deja vu._

He couldn't have one damn morning before he had to crash-land back to earth?

"Aramis, Porthos, go ahead inside," Treville said as they approached. His voice gave nothing away, but something was wrong. It was all over Treville's face. "I need to have a word with Athos."

Porthos' hand pressed at the small of his back, and Aramis' fingers wound tight in his and squeezed, and Athos nodded. He squeezed Aramis' hand back, gently stepped away from Porthos, and gave them both a faint smile. "I'll see you inside."

Aramis and Porthos shared a worried look, but after a moment Aramis reached out for Porthos' hand. "Okay," he said, and tugged Porthos in towards the studio. 

Porthos went, though his eyes lingered on Athos. Athos smiled and nodded at him, and finally Porthos turned and went on through, hitching a calm look on his face for the team's sake.

The second they were both gone, Athos felt like a rock had settled into his guts. He looked up at Treville and spread his hands. "Yes?"

"My office," Treville said. His whole posture was very carefully neutral. "It'll just be a moment."

The short walk to Treville's office was hell. Athos had no idea what could have happened. No one was sick, were they? Had Treville gotten some bad news, something he needed to tell Athos before he told the team?

"Is it anything with the team?" he asked in a low voice.

Treville blew out his breath and opened the door to his office. "In a manner of speaking," he said heavily, and ushered Athos in.

Athos didn't sit. Treville closed the door, and he didn't either. They stood in the narrow entryway, face to face, and Athos crossed his arms over his chest. (Protecting his weak places.) "Yes?"

Treville sighed, shifted his weight, and for a second it was as if--he couldn't meet Athos' eyes. 

Then he looked up, and his steel-blue gaze was almost gentle. "Athos, I have to suspend you from the team."

He hadn't expected _that._

For a split second, the ground disappeared from under Athos' feet. That was the only way to explain the way his entire body lurched with dread. 

He felt like all his physical parts--brain, arms, legs, heart--were shutting down in pure shock. 

No. _No._ Why? What had he done?

"We haven't been in any fights," Athos managed to say, his voice barely a croak. Every part of his body was going numb in horror. He needed this. He _needed_ this.

"That's not why." Treville was being gentle with him. There was a hand, Athos registered dimly, on his shoulder. "You're up on an Honor Code charge. I asked the dean if I could be the one to tell you."

"Honor Code." Athos couldn't process it. "The dean?"

"Richelieu." Treville sighed at the name, but it wasn't his usual sneer. "It's not his usual vendetta. Someone filed a charge against you."

"Against me." He couldn't do anything but repeat what Treville was saying. It wasn't processing. "For--for what?"

He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Treville this serious. "Breaking the resident assistant code. The mandatory reporting clause."

Athos stared blankly at Treville as it sank in. The mandatory reporting clause--he hadn't, he couldn't think of a time when--except the fencing party, but none of them would have--

Oh.

_Oh, no._

"There was a party in Delacroix," Treville said, just as it crashed into Athos' mind like a meteor strike. "Apparently you were there, and there was trouble, and you didn't call it in."

Athos closed his eyes. His head felt like it was going to burst. 

"They were all getting stoned," he said. It was all he could get out, but it was enough for Treville. He heard his coach's intake of breath, felt Treville's hand solid on his shoulder. Athos swallowed and added, "We only went for d'Artagnan. Porthos--Porthos called it in for me, but I didn't--I didn't."

"I'm sorry." Treville did sound sorry. "I'm sure we can make the case for you--"

Athos did not even try to hold back the bark of hollow laughter that pushed itself out of him. He rarely had to hide those things around Treville; Treville knew Athos' rock bottom already. "I didn't call it. I didn't. There's no excuse for it."

Treville gave him a look. It was his _do not give up on me now_ look, but even that didn't do much for Athos right now. "You'll still get a hearing. Since the end of the semester's here, it might not be until spring--"

Athos stared at him. _"Spring?"_ This was getting worse and worse by the minute. "I can't go to the invitational this weekend?"

"Both our hands are tied." Treville's sympathy cut worse than his anger would have. "It's a fairly serious infraction, Athos. You're suspended from the fencing team, and you're on probation with res life."

Probation. _Probation._ There was an unexpected lump in his throat when he asked, "Am I losing my place as RA?" Fuck. Fuck, he was not going to cry about this.

"Not unless the hearing goes badly," Treville said. He looked over at his desk, seemingly in thought, but Athos knew it was so Treville wouldn't watch him trying not to cry. "But right now, I'm afraid you're barred from the fencing team."

Athos closed his eyes, swallowed hard around the swelling in his throat. "I can't even watch practice?"

"I'm afraid not. The rules regarding suspension of team captains are very specific."

Athos bit down hard on his tongue, focused on the physical pain instead of the stabbing ache in his chest. "All right." His voice wavered, and he swallowed again, breathed. "Can Aramis and Porthos take over as co-captains until I'm back?"

"Of course."

Athos nodded. He stared at the floor, the patterns in the tile. Not crying. Not crying. 

"Can I at least tell them myself?" he asked, and his voice was steadier.

"Of course," Treville said, gentle again, and Athos couldn't stand it. "I'm on your side here, Athos."

"I know you are." The words fell dull and hollow between them, but Athos couldn't summon up anything more for Treville right now. He was trying to brace himself for the team's shock, their dismay. 

He shook himself, took a deep breath. "All right. I'll go talk to them."

His thoughts were churning as he walked down the hall with Treville at his back, his stomach roiling almost as badly. But he knew that his face didn't show it, at least. He could feel his face settle into his mask, and he was desperately grateful.

The team's chatter quieted as he and Treville walked in. Athos kept his eyes straight ahead, didn't seek out Aramis or Porthos. He wouldn't be able to keep himself together enough to say this if he looked at them.

As he paced to the front of the room, he caught his own reflection in the mirrored wall. Pale, but calm. He could do this.

"Everyone," he said, as he and Treville stood at the front of the room, and they went silent. It was harder than he thought it'd be, with all of them here looking at him. In their jackets, with their weapons in hand. 

Athos swallowed hard, clenched his hands into fists behind his back, and lifted his chin. "I'm afraid I have some bad news." Before the nervous murmur could start, he held up a hand, and without his directing them to, his eyes found d'Artagnan. "This does not," he said, "have anything to do with anyone here." _Not your fault. When you find out, not your fault._

He drew a deep breath and looked back at the main room. "But effective immediately, I'm serving a suspension from the team."

The gasp was audible, and then everyone started talking at once. Athos could see Aramis and Porthos in his peripheral vision. He couldn't bring himself to look at them just yet. 

"Settle," Treville said, his voice carrying, and the team's outraged cry quieted.

Athos took another breath, and his eyes were stinging again in the face of how upset they were. "I'm afraid I probably can't talk about it, so I'd appreciate your discretion." There was another murmur, and Athos kicked himself for drawing this out.

"As vice captains," he said, and damn his voice for getting tight _now_ , "Aramis and Porthos will co-captain until I'm reinstated. I'm sorry I can't see you through the weekend's invitational, but I know that they'll do as good a job as I could."

Now he had to look at them--a single look that said many things: _I'm sorry_ and _I'll explain later_ and _please please back me up on this, I don't know what the fuck else to do_.

They were staring at him, both clearly taken aback--but the moment he looked at them, they straightened imperceptibly, nodded to him, to Treville.

But the questions in their eyes were too much, and Athos couldn't do this anymore.

"I'm afraid I can't stay for practice," he said, and that--that was a disappointed sound from them all. He had to breathe through it, to steady himself in the face of how he'd let them down. "Enjoy the invitational this weekend, it'll be good experience for the NCAA season gearing up after break."

He wanted to say something else, but had no idea what more he could do. "I'm sorry," he said finally, and managed some approximation of a smile for them. "I hope I'll be back soon." 

The crestfallen looks on their faces made him shrivel up and die inside. But he had to stay upright.

So he did what he usually would when he needed help--he looked at Porthos. "Porthos, would you lead warmups?"

Porthos nodded (too much in his face for Athos to hold his gaze for long), and as he shifted to walk up to the front of the room, Athos turned and walked away. The transfer of authority was visible, for the team, and surely that would be better for them. 

He couldn't let Porthos get within arm's length of him right now, though. Breaking down in front of the team would _not_ be better for them.

So he walked down the side of the room, nodded jerkily to Treville as he passed him, and left.

Porthos maybe said something as he left, but Athos couldn't hear it over the thudding of his heart in his ears. He got halfway to the stairs before he changed his mind, and made a sharp left.

Everyone he cared about was in the fencing studio, so he felt curiously safe, enclosed in his own little bubble, as he threw up in the locker room toilets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, right, a plot. see, I told you we'd get to one eventually. as always, [if you need me,](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) and if you feel so inclined to show your support, [the Dumas Musketeers redbubble.](http://www.redbubble.com/people/cherryfeather/collections/405485-unus-pro-omnibus)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad day, a worse week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Thank you all so so much for the kind comments and the love, I'm in the middle of quitting my job and moving to start grad school in a few weeks so thank you for your patience! Warnings in this chapter for references to drug use, anxiety and panic attacks, really negative self-thinking, and alcohol abuse. As always, do not try any of Athos' maladaptive coping mechanisms at home. <3

Somehow he made it home. He didn't really remember the walk out of the sports center, or across campus--his shell-shocked body just steered itself to sanctuary, and Athos came back to himself in his bedroom. 

It was gray winter afternoon outside, the bright blue morning starting to dull to a muted steel. Athos stood in the middle of the floor, caught paralyzed between the window, his bed, and his desk. 

Window: look outside, watch the world, try and stay focused and conscious. Bed: collapse, think about nothing, let the all-consuming panic wash over in the path of least resistance. 

Desk: pills.

There were pills in his desk. He'd forgotten, in the last week or so, that they were there. That Anne had given him a baggie with his perfect poison at _that fucking party,_ that he'd kept them instead of throwing them away, flushing them down the toilet, dropping them in the lake. 

What had he _done._

He could feel his nausea rising again, the sick hollow feeling of needing to throw up when you'd already emptied your stomach, and he didn't know what more he could do--what more he was _supposed_ to do. 

This was what anxiety medications were for, some part of him thought hysterically. He needed to be able to get through this crisis, maybe he'd just take one.

No. Christ. It was never just one. This wasn't medicating. This was a fix.

What time was it? When were Porthos and Aramis going to be back? 

What were they going to say?

His knees gave out, and he landed on the bed hard enough to send it shaking, jarring him. He'd failed the team. He'd failed the whole team, he wasn't going to go with them this weekend, he wouldn't be able to even practice with them the rest of the semester. They'd put their trust in him, they'd elected him, and he'd failed them. Porthos and Aramis had put their trust in him, and all he'd done so far to show his appreciation was, what? A couple breakdowns and a good fuck or two? They had to be disgusted with him. They had to hate him. They'd hate him just like Anne had.

He buried his face in the blankets, fingers twisting in the cotton, and felt the fabric hot and wet against his eyes, his cheeks. Fuck. He was pathetic. He couldn't even hold himself together. 

Take the pills. Don't take the pills. Did it matter? He was a mess anyway, a fucking wreck of a human being. What were they going to do when they came back? Demand an explanation, he was sure, and then--then--

Would they leave him? Would they break up with him if he couldn't be the person they'd fallen for--too much of a mess, too needy, too self-destructive?

Fuck. Oh, fuck. 

His phone pulsed against his thigh, and Athos jerked upright like he'd been shocked. He'd been so deep in his own head, he hadn't-- He dug his phone out with his shaky hands, and saw three messages waiting for him, in addition to the two that had just come in.

[Text message: Aramis]  
[2:12pm - Are you okay? Porthos is leading practice rn, I had to check in, you looked bad]

[2:30pm - Did you go home?]

[2:43pm - We're wrapping up practice at 3, tell us where to meet you]

[Text message: Porthos]  
[3:02pm - if you don't pick up the phone im gonna make u sleep on the common room couch for a week c'mon babe we're worried]  
[i swear to god athos don't do this again, where tf are you??]

Athos managed to make his numb fingers reply [home] before falling back on the bed again.

They were asking if he was okay--they were worried?

 _They're not Anne,_ he told himself, guilt coiling sick and heavy in his stomach. He did them such a disservice sometimes, to think that they would treat him the same way that she had--that they'd be so cold. How could he have thought that about them, how could he be so--

"Athos!"

The bedroom door banged open and then Aramis was on the bed beside him, and all Athos knew for a moment was Aramis' fierce clutch, the smell of his hair as Aramis' curls tickled his face, and.

"You scared us," Aramis said fiercely as he drew back, reaching up to stroke Athos' hair away from his face, "just leaving and going silent like that--are you okay?"

Athos didn't have words. He looked over and saw Porthos kneeling beside the bed, his eyes dark and his face worried. Porthos reached up and put his hand on Athos' leg, but there was something almost wary on his face. "You gonna talk to us?" Porthos asked, and Athos' whole body ached.

Porthos didn't trust him anymore. 

He closed his eyes against the wave of vertigo, leaning into Aramis, and swallowed against the nausea churning in his chest again. "I got reported for not calling in that party where d'Artagnan got sick."

Porthos' breath hissed through his teeth, and Aramis swore under his breath. "That's not fair," he said instantly, drawing Athos in even closer, holding him. "Someone called it in, it's not like it wasn't--"

"Mandatory reporting," Athos said dully, his voice muffled by Aramis' shirt. "I broke the RA code. Someone filed an Honor Code violation against me."

"So you're off the team?" Porthos sounded angry. Athos hoped it wasn't at him. "What about res life?"

"Probation."

"Shit." Porthos blew out his breath, and his hand shifted on Athos' thigh. Athos nearly cringed at the thought he was going to pull it away--but then it slid up his leg, settled a little more firmly on him, and he was so pathetically grateful he pressed his face into Aramis' shoulder to blot the tears.

"Don't you get a hearing?" Aramis was trying to be encouraging, Athos could tell, but it made his stomach flip to even think about it. 

"Maybe not until spring." Athos could feel the shake, the ache, trying to start in his limbs. "I don't know what to do. This is all I have."

Porthos' hand closed tight around his thigh, and Athos did cringe, shrinking away from the two of them, because he just couldn't stand Porthos' anger--

"The team is not all you have," Porthos said, low and intense, and Athos looked at him in shock. Porthos was almost on a level with him, kneeling up next to the bed, and Athos just stared blankly at him. "Athos, the team is not all you have, you have me and Aramis, too, okay? You've got friends, you've got people who love you. We're gonna get you through this."

Athos couldn't breathe around the words that flooded up and choked him. _It's too much to ask of you,_ but he couldn't say that. _It's the only thing that keeps me sane,_ but maybe it wasn't, anymore.

 _I promised Treville a long time ago, and I need to keep that promise--_ but he couldn't tell them that, either.

"I've let you all down," he said. It was all he could think of to say that wouldn't hurt them. "You all put your trust in me to lead you, and now I've ruined that."

"Oh, love, you haven't," Aramis said, leaning in to kiss his temple. "You haven't let us down at all."

Porthos nodded, loosening his hold on Athos' leg and sitting back on his heels. "What is it you're worried about?" he asked softly. "That we'll be angry? Because we're not. That me and Aramis, or the whole team, that we're gonna move on while you're on the bench? Because we won't."

 _You will be angry,_ Athos didn't say, and he forced himself to breathe. 

"Don't spin out," Porthos said, and he squeezed Athos' leg again. "Don't, okay? We got this. We got you."

Aramis hummed an agreement, resting his head against Athos'. "What can we do?" he asked softly. "What is it that's scaring you the most?" 

God, they were too good, too kind, too willing to understand. Athos swallowed hard, and nodded. He had to stay calm. It was easier to talk to them if he was calm. "I don't know what to do if I can't fence," he said. It felt like the words themselves were heavy, like it took extra effort to say them. "If I can't fill these roles I've built for myself."

Aramis' lips pressed gently against his temple, and Athos closed his eyes, leaning into it. "You've seemed less worried about that lately," Aramis murmured softly.

Athos swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "I. I thought things were getting better." 

And things had been better. Hadn't they? 

He'd been worrying so much less lately, he thought--he'd thought he'd gotten past it all.

"Hey." Porthos squeezed his thigh again, and when Athos met his eyes, Porthos gave him a little smile. "Look, shit happens, okay? You have good people who've got your back. We're gonna get through this."

Athos didn't have to force his smile, stupidly grateful as he was--but he still felt sick, still had misgivings churning in his chest. They meant all this now, of course they did--would they still mean it tomorrow? Or a week from now, or a month, when he was still a failure and didn't have any goodwill left to go on?

"Are you hungry?" Aramis asked, tucking one of Athos' curls behind his ear. "Dinner's probably not out yet, but we can get you something."

Athos swallowed, his throat clicking. "I. A drink would be good, yeah."

He regretted it the minute they were downstairs in the dining hall. So much of the team was down there, snacking after practice, waiting for dinner to come out--he had to stand up straight, put an easy expression on his face, not let his hands shake as he filled a cup from the soda dispenser. He just wanted to hide. 

"Let's go sit with d'Art and Constance," Porthos said when Athos had his Gatorade, steering him before Athos had any chance to panic about it. Athos went. He could probably handle--

"Oh, it was her first practice," he realized as they wove through the tables. Constance had her hair pulled up, she was in workout clothes, she was--she had--

"She had a great time," Aramis assured him, his hand closing warm and soft around Athos' elbow. 

"I ruined it."

"I am gonna dump that Gatorade over your head," Porthos said, "if you don't cut it out with that shit." 

Aramis laughed gently, which was the only thing that told Athos' spiraling brain Porthos had been joking, and he managed a weak smile as they sat him down at Constance and d'Artagnan's table. 

They chorused hello as the three of them joined them, and Athos tried to look stable and reassuring for them, holding his glass tight between his hands to stop them from shaking. He opened his mouth to apologize preemptively when Constance cut him off, reaching out and grasping his wrist, her eyebrows knitting together in worry. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Athos shrugged, pathetically grateful that she was being nice instead of irritated that he'd ruined her first practice. "Just...kind of a surprise," he hedged, his gaze flicking to Aramis in silent appeal. He didn't want to have to run down it all again.

Aramis nodded, his hand sliding to squeeze Athos' knee under the table, and he and Porthos filled Constance and d'Artagnan in on the brief particulars. D'Artagnan looked stricken when they'd finished, and he gave Athos such a miserable look of apology that it actually stirred Athos from his self-loathing.

"It's not your fault," he said firmly. "You did the right thing calling us when you got sick. I should have called it in."

"That's so unfair," Constance said, her hand still tight on Athos' wrist, mercifully drawing d'Artagnan's kicked-dog look away. "I'm sure if they knew your history, and why it upset you--"

Athos sighed and took a sip of his lukewarm Gatorade. "I'm not sure it matters."

"We'll make it matter," Porthos said fiercely. "You still get a hearing. Even if it's next semester, we'll make them understand. Okay?"

It wasn't, and Athos didn't know how it could be, but--having someone on his side was still so new, so sweet, that he didn't do anything but nod. 

Aramis pressed their shoulders together and smiled at Constance. "So, how did you like your first practice?"

She beamed at him and launched into an excited list of people she'd talked to already, about how Gia had already started to show her proper grips and drill forms, and Athos breathed deeply and took a sip of his Gatorade. All he had to do was smile and nod. All he had to do was breathe.

He still felt like he'd run a mile when they finally got back up to their room. They all had homework, and Athos knew he should do work of his own--he had pages to translate, he had lesson plans, he had...

Porthos gave him a sidelong smile and closed the door behind them. "You need a nap?"

Athos opened his mouth to demur, then.

Well. Would would it hurt? "I would love to lie down," he said, feeling pathetic, and Aramis wrapped an arm around him. 

"We can do that," Aramis assured him, and steered him to the bed. 

"You have homework," Athos protested, dragging his feet a little as Aramis propelled him. "Really, you don't have to lie down with me."

"I want to," Aramis said, and sat down on their bed. He started taking off his shoes, like he was settling in, and Athos supposed he had to go along with it. 

"I could read the philo stuff to you," Porthos suggested, smiling at Aramis as he rifled through their various stacks of homework on the desk. 

Aramis beamed up at him and tugged Athos down to sit. "Yes, please."

Athos let Aramis arrange them, hoping it would settle his thoughts to not have to make the decisions. Aramis sat propped against the pillows, his notebook balanced on his right thigh, and he tucked Athos beneath the opposite arm, pillowing Athos' head on the curve of his belly. "There. See, I can take notes and cuddle at the same time," he said, his left hand stroking reassuringly down Athos' upper arm.

Athos closed his eyes and lost himself to the steady cadence of Porthos' voice, the scribble of Aramis' pen. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe this would be fine.

\- - -

"You didn't sleep," Aramis accused him Saturday morning in the dining hall.

Athos buried his face in his coffee mug. "Of course not. I haven't slept since Tuesday, you know that."

 _"Athos."_

"How am I supposed to relax," Athos snapped, "when I can't go along today?"

Porthos shoved an orange into his hand with a glower. "You might just have to trust us."

Athos' coffee curdled in his stomach, his eyes fixing in panic on the orange in his hand. Oh, fuck. Was that what they'd taken away from--from this week? "That isn't--" he stammered, nausea lurching up in his throat, "I didn't mean to--" 

No, he was not going to _throw up in the dining hall_ \--

Athos swallowed, hard, and dragged his eyes up to Porthos' face. "It's not that I don't trust you," he said, trying to calm the panic churning in his chest, "it's seeing that--seeing that _you_ get to go keeps reminding me why I _can't_ , and."

And that made him remember he might not get to go, ever again, which made him remember that there were people who wanted him to go who he'd have to disappoint, which made him remember he hadn't ever felt as good as he had when he was fencing and being a captain and being an RA and now he couldn't have any of that and might not ever again--

"Okay, okay," Aramis said gently, drawing Athos in with one arm. "You haven't slept, you're stressed, you're spinning out."

Athos numbly let Aramis pull him closer. A hand touched his hair and he flinched, he couldn't help it, Anne used to--

"Sorry, it's okay," Porthos said softly, his hand cupping the base of Athos' neck, and Athos tried to relax. "You know I'm bringing my own shit here, too."

Yes. Porthos had had people questioning and doubting him all his life. He didn't deserve it from Athos, too. 

"We all wish you were coming, but we're not mad at you," Aramis said, and kissed his forehead. 

It was all well and good for Aramis to say that, but Athos knew how irritated they were with him that he was taking this so hard. What was going to happen when their patience ran out?

"It's almost eight," he said into Aramis' shoulder. "You should go down to the bus."

"Fuck the bus," Porthos said, his fingers tightening on Athos' neck. "Can't leave without us, can it?"

Athos managed to lift his head with a vague chuckle. "Treville might."

Aramis kissed his temple, his cheek, and Athos could feel him smiling. They were relieved to hear him make a joke. How bad had he been, this week? He couldn't trust his own memories of it. 

He'd been tightrope-walking from bad night to worse night, his own shortcomings so much more painfully apparent in the quiet spaces between Porthos' and Aramis' breathing in bed. The two of them had stepped up so well as captains, leading all the preparation for today's meet with ease. Athos probably wouldn't have been able to do it half as well.

"We'll miss you," Porthos said, and leaned in to kiss him.

They'd probably be glad to get away from him for a few hours, Athos thought as he leaned into Porthos' chest, trying to save it up. Maybe when they came back they'd have realized how much less stressed they were without him.

"Try to stay busy," Aramis said as he enfolded him in a hug. "Do you want us to text you how it's going?"

Athos shook his head, pressing his face into Aramis' shoulder and breathing him in. Usually it calmed him, but today it just made his chest ache. "I'll see you tonight."

Aramis cupped his cheek when they drew apart, and his eyebrows were knitted together, tense in his worry. "You'll be okay?"

Athos dredged a smile up from somewhere and nodded. "Make it a good one."

They both smiled at that, relieved to see him functioning at least halfway normally, Athos was sure, and he watched them hoist their fencing bags and walk down to the bus hand in hand. 

He didn't really feel anything as he watched them go. Just a gnawing, empty kind of sensation, like he was missing something inside of him.

 _Hello, darkness, my old friend,_ he thought humorlessly, and turned to head back up to his room. 

Devoid of Porthos and Aramis, the emptiness of his room was oppressive rather than comforting. It felt like too much of an opportunity--to panic, to slip off the deep end.

To take the pills.

He didn't open the drawer. He stood at his desk, staring at the tabletop like he could see through it--see the crumpled little baggie with the smooth little shapes. 

He'd been thinking about them all week. Every night, lying between Porthos and Aramis with his heart thumping in his throat, unable to sleep for the way his mind kept racing from disaster to disaster, he'd counted off all three pills in the bag. _The oxycodone would get me to sleep. The Ativan would stop my thoughts racing. The diazepam would make me relax._

But he'd lain there, tears sliding down his nose into the pillow, because he couldn't get up without waking Aramis or Porthos.

At nights, that was the only thing that stopped him.

But they weren't here now, and he was running out of reasons not to take them. Just to take the edge off, just to make him steady--

No.

 _It's not that bad,_ he repeated over and over. _It's not bad enough to need them._

But he needed something. His hands were shaking, his mouth dry and his head aching, but--it was eight in the damn morning on a Saturday. Where the fuck could he go?

He blinked his eyes back into focus, and found himself staring at his French notebook. Fine. Cyrano. He could translate fucking Cyrano while he waited for a solution to appear.

Freed from any constraint of pretending to struggle, especially when he was alone, it was easy to be dispassionate, to just let the text speak for itself. He could think about appropriate idiom later. He plowed through it, turning the page with his left hand and scribbling out the translation with the other. 

_Rise not so high, maybe, but be there all alone._

Fuck.

He slammed his notebook shut and dropped his head into his hands. He hurt. He hurt all over. 

When he lifted his head, it was almost eleven o'clock.

Oh, good. The liquor store would be open by now.

\- - -

The cashier took his license with a snap of the bubble gum in his mouth. "You a student from the college?"

Athos swore inwardly. He just wanted to get his vodka and get home, not stand in the checkout line at the county line liquor store and make small talk. "Yes."

The cashier looked down at his license, squinting at the date, then looked up when he'd done the math. "You're older than you should be."

"I took a year off," Athos said, trying not to get terse or weird. He didn't want them to think his license was fake, sadly real as it was. 

"You have a lot more hair now," the guy said, bringing Athos' license so close to his face that it nearly touched his nose.

Athos stared at the tiny bottles in glass jars at the counter. Gin. Rum. Bitters. "Yeah, depression's a bitch."

The cashier nodded and finally passed Athos' license back across the counter. "Yeah, man, my girlfriend's depressed," he said as he keyed in the numbers of Athos' birthdate. "She don't come in here 'cause of it, she gets extra low with a bottle, you know?"

Oh, fuck. "Yeah?" Athos asked, trying to keep his voice as neutral as he could. Because he _really needed_ to be reminded there were people who'd prefer him not to be drinking in his current mental state.

"Yeah, shit's rough." The cashier snapped open a brown paper bag and slid the bottle of vodka inside, folding the top carefully shut. "Have a good one, man. Don't get too low."

"I try," Athos got out, pulling out the first bill bigger than ten he saw in his wallet and dropping it on the counter. "Keep the change."

"Uh, this is a fifty--?" the guy got out as Athos made a beeline for the door and his car. Home. He needed to be home now.

It was so much harder to pretend to be all right outside of his room, hell, outside of the campus. He'd thought it would be easier out on his own, where no one knew him or had any expectations, but it just made him so much more self-conscious. 

He rested his head against the steering wheel. Fuck. _Fuck._

He could text Porthos and Aramis. Ask them how the meet was going, get updates from them, from d'Artagnan and Constance. Constance wasn't competing, but she'd gone along to cheer everyone on. 

Athos should have gone on his own, too. He couldn't mix with the team, but he could have gone just to sit in the stands, just to. To watch.

Fuck.

He reached into the paper bag and screwed off the cap of the vodka, brought it to his lips and knocked back a sip just to calm the racing of his--

Oh, _fuck_.

He spun the lid back on and stuffed the bottle into the footwell of the passenger seat, his heart rattling his ribs and his stomach lurching with more than just the paint-thinner burn of cheap vodka.

Well, now he had to drive all the way back to campus in a busted-up, broken-down car with vodka on his breath. 

It was so fucking _lunatic_ that he nearly laughed. 

God, wouldn't his parents love to see him now?

He took all the turns back to campus with paranoiac precision. Obeyed every traffic law. Scrupulously used his blinker. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, his eyes wouldn't stop checking mirror-road-mirror-blind spot-road.

He was exhausted by the time he got back to his room. By then, the vodka was a reward.

\- - -

He felt like a record skipping, the day passing in fits and starts. It was morning. It was afternoon. It was starting to get dark. His bottle of vodka was the needle in his grooves, translating him from just a thing into something coherent, until he skipped again and had to start all over.

They should be home by now, shouldn't they? Maybe they'd stopped for dinner. Maybe they'd won and they felt like celebrating. He missed them. He should have gone with them. 

He tipped back the handle of vodka and took another swig. He'd drunk--a lot of it, over the course of the day. More than half. It stopped all the chaos in his head, all the thoughts like bees buzzing and buzzing in a hive. And when the buzzing started again, he took another drink. 

He hadn't done this in a long time. He thought he didn't need it anymore, but it was almost a relief to fall back into the old habit.

A door slammed in the hall, and he lifted his head up off the bed. He could hear chattering, loud calls back and forth, and the sound of more doors. The team back?

He pushed himself up, swaying a little, and set the vodka on top of his refrigerator. The door handle moved a few times, but eventually he got it in his hand and pulled it open--

And there were Aramis and Porthos with their fencing bags, Aramis' hand outstretched like he'd been just about to knock.

Aramis beamed at him. "Hey!"

"Hello," Athos said, and half-fell forward to kiss him.

"Whoa, hello," Porthos laughed, bracing Aramis as he stumbled back under Athos' weight, and Athos grabbed both of them by the collar and dragged them inside.

This was all he wanted to think about, with them. What felt good, what felt right. Seeing them in front of him, in their fencing jackets with all their gear, tall and gorgeous and--God, they were _his_ , weren't they, he could just be like this with them--

"Easy, easy," Porthos laughed, catching Athos' hands when they tugged impatiently at his jacket. "Let us put our shit down, at least."

"Mmm, no," Athos said, stretching up to kiss him again. "Bed now."

"Did you miss us?" Porthos said, grinning against his mouth. "Don't get me wrong, we hoped you didn't spend the whole day moping--" 

"Athos."

Aramis' voice was sharp, and a little upset, and Athos turned in Porthos' arms to see Aramis behind him, with the half-empty handle of vodka.

"Is this new?" Aramis said, holding it up with a strange look on his face. "We didn't have any of this last weekend."

"I got some," Athos said, swaying forward until he was leaning against Aramis. "Too much of a mess today. Needed to take the edge off."

Aramis' other came up to encircle him, even as he still held the vodka away. "You drank all this today?"

"Not all at once," Athos said, leaning in to nuzzle at Aramis' neck. 

"And you feel okay?" He could hear Aramis' voice wavering, and Athos knew he didn't really care about the vodka anymore. He liked what Athos was doing. Which was good, because Athos liked doing it.

"I feel better than I have in days," he said, and leaned over to take the bottle from Aramis' hand. The vodka burned blue in his throat, then settled red and glowing in his stomach, in his head. All the buzzing was quiet, replaced with just the thump of their blood against his. He grinned viciously, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand--and then Aramis took the bottle from his hand again. "Hey."

"In a minute," Aramis said, and kissed him hard. Athos sank into it, kissing back and not caring that it was sloppy and wet, mouths off-center and tongues slick--

"That's more like it," Porthos' voice murmured from close, and Athos twisted, turned to pounce on him. Touch, touch, he wanted touch, he wanted more kisses and more skin and both of them, all over him. His brain was numbed by how much he'd drunk--he wasn't thinking about anything but the two of them and how good they made him feel, he just wanted them. They spilled onto the bed, all still dressed--he hadn't even let Porthos and Aramis take their shoes off--but it was okay. He hadn't been able to be close to them like this all week, he'd been too anxious, but now he could relax. Now it was fine.

"I wanna fuck," he gasped between kisses. He was lying on top of Porthos, knees spread on either side of Porthos' legs, and he couldn't think of anything that would feel better. 

Porthos stilled, pulling back, and his eyes were huge and dark. He put a hand on Athos' chest when Athos leaned back down for another kiss, then he looked at something over Athos' shoulder--Aramis, probably, but Athos didn't really care. He just cared that Porthos had stopped kissing him.

"You wanna what?" Porthos asked, his voice so low in his chest Athos felt it vibrate up through his stomach.

"Fuck," Athos said, his tongue loose and burning with vodka. He rolled his hips against Porthos', and it was easy, straddling him the way he was, to feel Porthos' cock jerk against his own. "Fuck me, come on, please."

"You haven't asked us for that, yet," Aramis said behind him, and his fingers massaged the base of Athos' scalp, threading through his hair. It felt good, but not good enough to distract him.

"Fuck what I've asked for. Fuck me."

He wanted it, he just _wanted_ it, wanted to take the opportunity when his head wasn't so much in his fucking way. He felt good, he felt all loose and relaxed like everything on sex said he should be, what was the fucking deal?

"You're drunk," Porthos said, and there was something so fucking _patronizing_ in his voice--of course Athos was drunk, he was perfectly fucking drunk and he wanted to be fucked while he was perfectly fucking drunk.

"Yes, I'm drunk," Athos snapped, suddenly irritated. "I'm drunk and I want your cock in my ass."

Porthos was looking at him so strangely, like Athos was asking him to get the moon or dye his hair fucking blue. This was sex. They had sex all the time. What was so different about this?

"Athos, you don't ask us for this when you're sober," Aramis said, his voice the same as Porthos', so fucking condescending, like they had to explain Athos' own fucking thoughts to him.

Athos growled and jerked his head away from Aramis' hands. "I'm a fucking chickenshit when I'm sober, just--come on, what's the big deal?"

"I'm not gonna fuck you when you're drunk," Porthos said sharply, pushing himself up onto his elbows. 

"Fuck you, I want this," Athos shot back. 

"It's my fucking cock," Porthos said, glaring at him, and he was _angry,_ why the hell was he angry? "And I don't put it in anyone who's too drunk to give me a real fucking yes."

"Porthos," Aramis said quietly, but Athos ignored him. 

"Why are you treating me like a child?" he snapped at the two of them. 

"Because you're acting like one," Porthos snapped right back.

"Athos," Aramis said, louder, but they both ignored him.

"I know what I want!" Athos half-yelled, getting madder by the second.

"And I don't fuck brats," Porthos shot at him, "but I'll sure as shit spank you like one if you keep this up. What the fuck are you--"

"Stop it!" Aramis barked, and then he was between them, pulling Athos back off Porthos and keeping a hand on Porthos' chest before he could get up. "Athos, you're drunk and you're being obnoxious, stop talking. Porthos, just--let it be for a minute, all right?"

Porthos settled back down, breathing heavily, but Athos crawled back and off the bed. Fuck this. Fuck them. They couldn't give him this one thing he wanted, that he _needed_ , because--? Fuck it.

"Athos, come back to bed," Aramis said, and he sounded tired, annoyed, of course he was tired of dealing with Athos and his fucking emotions. They were so fucking patronizing.

"No. Fuck this." Athos held onto the bedpost to steady himself, and he looked around for his vodka--but Aramis must have put it somewhere, it wasn't anywhere he could see. Fuckers. "You hid my booze," he accused Aramis, and Aramis just stared up at him without a word. For fuck's sake.

Porthos was glaring at him like Athos had never seen Porthos glare before. It made his stomach turn, but he was too mad to care. "Look," Porthos said, his voice still hot with anger, "if you want us to just go tonight--"

"No, you stay," Athos snapped, lurching to the door and wrenching it open. "You stay in my fucking bed, _I'll_ go."

 _"Athos,"_ he heard Porthos bark, like he was calling a fucking dog to heel, and Athos slammed his bedroom door behind him as he stormed out down the hall.

The hall lights were too bright and sterile and it made his stomach churn to remember the hospital, the way everything there had been so over-lit and saw right through him, always, and--oh, fuck, shit shit shit--

The hallway tilted around him like fucking _Inception_ as he fumbled his way down the hallway to the common room. The couch was soft, and the lights were off in there, and he turned until he could press his forehead against the back of the couch and hide his face from the world.

Too bright. Too real. Too much. 

His anger burned away with the acid in his throat, leaving only the throbbing ache of tears. He'd walked out on them. He'd left them, he should--he should go back, he should apologize. 

Porthos was furious with him. Aramis--he'd probably hurt Aramis, too. He'd upset them, he'd--he'd asked too much, he'd been too much, he'd. He'd really fucked up.

He was the biggest fuckup in the world. 

Athos curled in on himself even tighter on the couch, sick to his stomach and sick at heart and sick with fear, and closed his eyes until his brain went quiet.

\- - -

The sunlight through the big bay windows woke him. 

Fuck, his head _hurt_ \--

Even bringing an arm up to shield his eyes made him nauseous, and Athos groaned aloud, with great feeling. He hadn't been this hungover since--well, since he'd had alcohol poisoning. 

"Yeah," Porthos' voice said, near at hand, "bet you feel _great,_ huh."

Porthos. 

For about a millisecond, Athos didn't remember what had happened the night before, and he smiled.

Then. 

Well.

It would have been kinder if his stomach had lurched up instead of down. Then he'd at least have the distraction of running to throw up instead of just lying here, certain that his world was about to shatter around him. 

"There it goes," Porthos said, a strange bitter twist to his voice Athos had never heard before, and Athos pressed his arm harder to his eyes, fighting off the burn of tears.

Well, there was one thing he could say.

"I am so, so sorry," he croaked, sick and ashamed and terrified that he'd open his eyes to see Porthos glaring at him with that furious look he'd had last night. It was bad enough through the lens of his drunken memories. "Porthos, I'm so sorry, I was entitled and rude and drunk and you were absolutely right, I was absolutely wrong, I am so sorry."

 _Please don't leave me,_ he wanted to say, wanted to beg, wanted to throw himself at Porthos' feet and sob and sob--but he couldn't. He didn't have the right. If Porthos was done with him now, he deserved it.

Porthos let out his breath in a long, slow sigh, and Athos heard the squeak of the chair across the room, and then steps.

And then the couch dipped beside him, and Athos' shielding arm dropped in surprise.

Porthos looked down at him with a wry, tired smile. "Yeah, you were out of line, that's for damn sure."

"I'm so sorry," Athos whispered, the shame almost choking him. 

Porthos reached down and laced their fingers together, and it was almost too much for Athos to bear, that Porthos would still touch him and reassure him right now. He sat up, ignoring the dizzy spin of his head, because Porthos deserved to have him upright like an equal right now, not a sick child needing coddling.

"You get why I was mad," Porthos said slowly, not quite a question.

Athos nodded. He could hardly stand to look at Porthos' face right now (handsome perfect beautiful face, all twisted up with upset emotions because of Athos' drunken carelessness), but he owed Porthos at least that much. "I treated you like a sex toy instead of a person," he finally managed to say. "I'm surprised you're even touching me right now."

Porthos sighed, and his fingers tightened in Athos'. "Well, first of all, yeah, you did, but the lesson here is I get to decide when I want to touch you--and right now, I do, because you are scaring the _shit_ out of me and I want to try to understand."

Athos nodded numbly. He couldn't do anything but hold onto Porthos' hand for dear life. "I couldn't make my head stop, yesterday. All the guilt and blaming and--I was sure you weren't coming back, not really. That you'd realize how good it was to spend a day without all my shit."

"That's the anxiety?" Porthos asked, his dark eyes probing, trying to understand. "Or the family shit?"

Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat. "It's both. It's--it's not real, is it?"

"Of course not," Aramis said softly, and Athos jerked in surprise, looking over to see Aramis leaning against the kitchen doorway. How long had he been there? Aramis looked tired, rumpled--but he waved a hand at Athos to go on. 

Athos took a deep breath, finding the ground easier to look at now than having to choose between Aramis and Porthos' disappointed faces. "So I got the vodka and I drank all day. It made my head stop going, it helped me relax. And you got home, and--it was the first time I'd felt good all week, because I wasn't thinking." 

He had to laugh, choked and bitter. "Of course, then I _wasn't thinking,_ so I just--treated you both like you were just there to make me feel good, instead of being my actual friends with your own actual feelings." His eyes stung, and he reached up to wipe at them. "That part, that's the family shit, Porthos. The rich, entitled white boy shit."

"Yeah," Porthos said quietly. "And I got real angry real quick, because I have had a lot of entitled white boys treat me like their toy, you get me?"

Athos nodded, tears stinging at his eyes again. 

"I could have had a little more of a grip," Porthos said, quietly. "And I'm sorry I went zero to sixty so fast, but--you hit a real nerve of mine, babe."

Athos could barely find his voice. "I'm so sorry. I know I can't take it back, but I will never do it again."

"I know you won't," Porthos said, even softer than Athos had spoken. But he didn't take his hand away, and Athos heard the soft rustle of Aramis' pajamas, the shift of his step, and when Athos opened his eyes again, Aramis was sitting down on the coffee table opposite them. 

"We could have been less patronizing last night," Aramis said, and his deep brown eyes were very serious, very heavy. "I could have talked to you more instead of just hiding the bottle under the bed, and I'm sorry. It's just--you know, you're kind of unpredictable when you're drunk?"

Athos nodded, his stomach turning uncomfortably. Anne had always--he should probably say this out loud. "Anne liked it. She, uh. Encouraged that, as much as possible."

Aramis tipped his head back, sighing. "Jesus."

Athos swallowed and looked back down at the floor. "Yeah."

"I knew we were unlearning a lot of shit," Aramis said, sounding even more tired, "but I didn't think… Okay. Porthos, you wanna--"

"Yeah," Porthos said, and squeezed Athos' hand. Athos looked up, sick and tired and ashamed to meet his eyes, but--Porthos didn't look angry. He just looked sad, and tired, but there was still some smile in his eyes when he looked at Athos. 

Athos could have cried.

"We're gonna put this in the books as our first fight, okay?" Porthos said, his thumb running over the back of Athos' hand. "Because you're not okay right now, and we all know what we did wrong, and I don't think this one thing's ever gonna happen again."

"God, no," Athos said fervently, clutching for Aramis' hand and holding onto Porthos' even tighter. "Fuck, not ever."

"Can you try and--reality check with us more?" Aramis said, his fingers so gentle and strong in Athos. "Would that help the anxiety?"

Athos did not say _nothing helps the anxiety,_ because that didn't seem like a productive addition to this conversation. Checking in with them more about their own feelings-- "Yes," he said, the panic that they were going to leave him receding for the first time all week. "I--I've been assuming a lot about how you two were feeling about me. About this probation thing."

"We kinda guessed," Porthos said dryly, his first smile of the morning twitching the corner of his mouth. "You wanna ask us how we're actually feeling?"

Athos took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and thanked every higher power in the universe that they weren't leaving him yet. "Yes, please. How are you feeling?"

"Well," Aramis said, his fingers squeezing Athos' in a reassuring pulse, "I'm worried about how you're taking it, and about how it's dragging at Porthos' sore spots…"

They talked all morning, and Athos sat between them and listened.

His head, for now, was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [find me here,](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/) and if you feel so inclined to help a soon-to-be-even-poorer writer/grad student, the [U Pro O Redbubble is here. ](http://www.redbubble.com/people/cherryfeather) Y'all are the best readers ever.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your good vibes on my move! I'm all settled in at school now, starting classes, and super jazzed and motivated. This chapter is one I've been eager to work on for a long time, and I'm so excited to share it all with you.
> 
> THAT BEING SAID, please note all of these **TRIGGER WARNINGS** : Panic attacks, alcohol and drug use, really terrible self-abuse and self-hating thoughts, depression, abusive relationship dynamics (not the trio), mentions of canon character death, and I'm putting drug use again just so no one misses it. If any of these are going to affect you and you need to know where and when they happen, please message me over on tumblr (link in the endnotes) and I'll tell you. Take care of yourselves.

"You look really sad, Athos," Macy said, sliding beads across the row on the chunky wooden abacus. "Are you sick again?"

Athos tapped one more bead down the row. "Four plus two, Macy. And no, I'm not sick."

Freddie looked very seriously at him from the other side of the counting table. "But are you sad?"

Athos blinked, looking up at him. They were level enough, with Freddie standing and Athos sitting on the brightly-colored yarn rug of the schoolroom floor. Oddly enough, lying never crossed his mind. He never lied to his students. "Yes, a little."

Macy looked up from the beads she'd been counting. "Six beads."

"Yes, very good."

She nodded in satisfaction and pushed them all back to the far side. "Why are you sad?"

Athos debated how in-depth he should go--if he should even, really, sum up how he'd gotten to this last week of classes. They were only four, after all. "Well, I'm in trouble," he said, lowering his voice a little, and the two of them scooted closer. "You know when you do something bad, sometimes you have to get a time-out?"

"I put peanut butter in my sister's hair one time," Macy said, her own thick corkscrew curls implying the seriousness of such an infraction. "I was in time-out for two whole days."

"Is there a time-out for grownups?" Freddie asked, his eyes going even bigger.

Athos tapped the beads idly along the abacus slide. "Sort of. I'm the captain of the sports team I'm on, but since I'm in trouble right now, they put me in time-out from the team, so I can't play."

This was clearly the absolute worst thing Freddie had ever imagined in his four and a half years on the planet. "You don't get to play?" Athos shook his head, and Freddie scrambled across the rug to clamber into his lap and wrap his arms around Athos' middle. "You can play with us!"

Athos had to smile, hugging Freddie in response. "That's very nice of you, Freddie, thank you. I do like playing with you." Class was the only thing that still felt normal, that made him believe he wasn't the pariah he felt like.

"Why did you get in trouble?" Macy tapped the blocks back and forth on the slide, her eyes still riveted on Athos. "Did you put peanut butter in somebody's hair?"

Athos bit his tongue to stop himself laughing. God, if only he'd done that instead. "No, I broke a very important rule."

Macy goggled at him. The idea of a teacher breaking a _rule_ \--Athos almost regretted bringing it up. "What," she asked in a hushed voice, "did you _do?"_ Freddie's eyes darted between the two of them, his mouth hanging open.

Athos tried to smile, doing his best to ease their concern. They were such _sweet_ kids. "Macy, you're the volunteer leader for your desk group, right? You make sure everybody gets their stuff cleaned up, and you help everybody line up so you can go to recess?" She nodded, lifting her chin with pride. "Well, I've got a job like that on the hall where I live--I make sure all the other students clean up and stay safe." 

He took a deep breath, and blew it out through his nose. "Part of that means I'm supposed to tell my teacher when I see people doing something that might hurt themselves. But one time, I didn't, and someone told, and now I'm in trouble for not telling the teacher."

Macy and Freddie processed that. Freddie picked at the weave in the rug, frowning, as he thought about it. "Why didn't you tell the teacher?"

Athos swallowed. It was funny, sometimes, how breaking things down for the kids made it that much clearer for him, too. "I was scared."

Macy blinked solemnly up at him. "Why?"

Athos tilted his hand back and forth. "I was scared I might hurt myself, too."

Freddie drew himself up, looking indignant. "But you were scared! That's not okay, that somebody tattled on you for being scared."

Oh, this was a hard lesson to teach. Athos smiled gently at Freddie. "Well, when I took the job, I agreed that I'd do all of it, even the parts that scare me."

Freddie and Macy's little faces screwed up in thought, and slowly Macy nodded. "I guess that makes sense," she said dubiously, and Athos had to smile a little more at that. 

"Come on, let's get back to counting," he said, pulling the abacus back closer. "You want to try seven and five?"

They added numbers for a few moments, the kids successfully distracted, until Freddie said, "Do you know who tattled on you?"

Athos sat back, surprised. He hadn't actually thought about it, it could have been--well, anyone there. 

Anne's face came immediately to mind, of course. Anne, who'd done nothing _but_ ruin his life since coming back into it. But--she'd given him the pills. That was her weapon of choice for destroying him. She wouldn't have tried something as subtle as this sabotage. She had better ways of getting into his head. More direct ones. _Like the pills._

"No," he said slowly. "No, but--they probably thought they were doing the right thing."

Macy shook her head, her curls bouncing back and forth. "My mom said that before I tattle on my sister, I should tell my sister that I'm _gonna_ tell so she can be 'sponsible. They should have talked to you first."

Athos nodded absently, his thoughts spinning. "It would have been nice of them, yes."

The thought stuck with him through the rest of class, as he said goodbye to Freddie and Macy for winter break and put his notes back into his bag. Why _had_ his accuser gone straight to the dean, instead of asking Athos to fix it and come forward himself? 

"Athos," Professor Connolly called from across the room as he closed his bag. She waved him over. "I got your email, I'm sorry I hadn't had a chance to respond yet--"

"It's fine," Athos said automatically, his heart lurching uncomfortably into his throat. "It wasn't--I mean, if there's nothing you can--"

"No, it's all right," she assured him, her eyes kind. "You can take the extension on your packet, just get it to me by the end of finals."

Athos stared at her, his neck heating under his scarf and coat, completely wrongfooted. Somehow, he still never expected understanding and kindness. Porthos and Aramis had encouraged him to just ask, since he'd been too panicked to get his packet of lesson plans and subsequent reflections together--an extension had seemed like such an imposition to ask for, but. 

"Thank you," he managed to say, hoping his surprise wasn't too obvious. "Thank you, Professor, I really appreciate it." 

The unexpected reprieve buoyed his mood a bit, as he walked the twisting path across campus toward home. He'd expected to have to spend all night writing feverishly to get the report in by midnight, and it would have been shit. Now he could have some extra time to get the Cyrano done, finish the take-home for statistics, actually get to write about how his students had progressed over the semester--

But Macy's words hovered over him, tapping against the back of his thoughts. _Who tattled on you? They should have talked to you first._

Who, indeed. He'd thought the other students liked him, that they trusted him--there had been a lot of athletes at the party, a lot of people he knew. People that he'd hoped would respect him enough to come to him with a problem. 

Apparently not.

\- 

"You gotta turn that packet in today, babe," Porthos said a week later, scrubbing his hand over his face in the morning sunlight. "You said to remind you."

Athos groaned with feeling, dropping his head to their breakfast table. "I _know._ "

"It's done," Aramis pointed out around a mouthful of half-frozen mango from the salad bar. "Just go print it and turn it in."

Athos folded his arms around his head and mumbled his response. 

Porthos jabbed him in the arm with the handle of his fork. "Didn't catch that."

Athos groaned again. "I said _I don't want to be seen in public._ " He hadn't shaved since the beginning of finals. He only showered because Aramis and Porthos dragged him back and forth. His hair was unruly and falling in his eyes, and he was about a week behind on laundry (he was wearing Porthos' shirt and Aramis' loosest jeans, right now). 

He still didn't have a date for his honor code hearing, and the nagging question of who the hell had been the one to report him had been preying on him all week. Walking into the social science building--into the education department, no less--looking like the most ragged, trainwrecked version of himself was exactly the way he wanted his professors to remember him over break. Of course it was.

Aramis hushed him, leaning over to kiss Athos' hair. "Run in and run out. It's finals. No one cares."

 _I care,_ Athos argued silently in his head, but he didn't say a word out loud. 

Aramis and Porthos had been so incredibly generous over the last week. They were more patient than he'd ever known anyone to be, kinder than he thought his anxious self-flagellation deserved. They'd soothe him when he went into too much of a spiral and help him breathe until it was done. He felt like he wasn't giving them anything in return, but apparently all they wanted was for him to talk to them, to be himself and be honest. (How novel, for him.) 

He couldn't go on like this. He needed to get better; he couldn't keep them doing this for the entirety of winter break--which they were going to spend together. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and elating. They were still finalizing the plans: they'd either stay over break with the students taking extra classes, or Athos would suck it up and ask his parents if they could use the condo on the Cape. He knew which one he'd prefer--but he felt like Porthos and Aramis deserved the change of scenery. 

Maybe once this week was done, he'd have enough energy to call them and ask. Right now, every single bit of self-possession he had was going towards just getting up and acting like a human. Finishing all his classwork. Giving Porthos and Aramis the consideration and affection they deserved.

Luckily, he wasn't the center of their attention at the moment. Porthos and Aramis had spread out their philosophy study stash over the dining hall table, books mingling with plates of cereal and snacks, and he felt like an interloper even now. They were planning on spending the whole day studying before heading to the academic building after dinner for the last test slot.

Then all three of them would be done with finals, and Athos could curl up with them and forget the world until January. Maybe he could finally stop being paranoid about who'd turned him in. Maybe he could actually have a fully honest conversation with them about why this was so hard.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

"I'll let you study," he said, tossing his silverware onto his plate and pushing his chair back.

Porthos looked up from his notebook, a deep crease between his eyebrows, and caught Athos' hand before he could stand. "Hey."

Athos froze. "Yes?"

Porthos' eyes were so warm, so brown. "You're okay. We love you."

Aramis hummed in agreement, grinning at Athos as he chewed on the end of his pen. 

Athos flushed, a smile flashing helpless across his face. He wanted to say it back. He would, soon. "I know," he managed, and leaned in for a kiss from each of them before he left. 

The academic buildings were almost preternaturally quiet. Students sat in groups of chairs with their heads together, talking in hushed whispers if they talked at all, one eye always anxiously on the clock. Athos moved through disturbing them as little as possible, doing his level best not to make eye contact with anyone. In and out, he repeated over and over in his head. 

Professor Connolly's voice carried down the hall to him as he came out of the stairwell on the second floor. Athos hurried around the corner to catch her, hoping he could just drop it off and be free--but she wasn't alone, she was standing in conversation with someone. Athos stopped in his tracks. 

"Oh, Athos," she said, spotting him over the man's shoulder. "Thanks for bringing that by."

Her voice was a little odd, her eyebrows pinched, but Athos didn't have time to think about why. The man with her was turning around, and even if the rail-thin frame and silver hair hadn't been a giveaway, Professor Connolly's unease should have been.

"Mr. de la Fere," Richelieu said, his piercing eyes and slanting smirk fixing on Athos. "We were just discussing you."

Athos swallowed down the rock in his throat, sending it careening into his stomach and making him nauseous. "Oh," he said, his voice so careful and neutral he couldn't think of anything better to say. 

Richelieu's thin smile widened. "Yes, I've been speaking with your teachers about your grades. In preparation for the hearing, you understand."

Athos was dimly aware he was clenching his lesson plans in his fist, and he consciously relaxed his hand as he walked (edged) around Richelieu, to pass them to Professor Connolly. "I didn't know that was part of it."

"The whole picture, you understand." Richelieu's hawk eyes watched Athos hand over his papers, watched Professor Connolly slide them into her bag without looking at them. "Late work?"

"Revisions," she said before Athos could say anything. When he looked up at her face, hoping his surprise wasn't obvious on his face, she was looking at Richelieu with a faint frown etched between her eyebrows. "Athos is very dedicated to my class, Dean Richelieu. He's a wonderful model for the children."

Athos would have given almost anything he had to stop her from saying that last sentence. Richelieu's cold eyes lit with malicious pleasure, sliding to Athos. "I'm so glad to hear that." Insincerity dripped from every word. "From what I've heard, you've been a very particular kind of role model in the past."

God, please, not in front of Professor Connolly, not in front of the one person whose class he couldn't stand getting booted from-- "I know a lot of people who struggled in high school," Athos managed to say evenly. "I wasn't aware it had any bearing on their time in college."

"Of course not," Professor Connolly said, and Athos would have thanked her if he'd felt able to move. He was rooted to the spot, watching Richelieu.

The dean spread his hands, his expression so bland and benign Athos could have screamed. "Of course not. I simply want to be sure our most impressionable youth have their best examples before them." He smiled at Athos. "I'd heard you'd made a lethal impression once before."

He didn't put any emphasis on _lethal._

He didn't have to. 

Later, Athos would be fairly sure he'd stumbled through some kind of goodbye to Professor Connolly, gotten past Richelieu without saying anything more than a noncommittal affirmative. He didn't remember the actual actions, just the vague impression of having done them, recording the movements from somewhere outside his body.

He managed to make it to the third floor bathroom before the panic attack started, so he supposed he should be thankful for small favors. 

At least no one would find him here, some small part of his mind repeated over and over, as he collapsed into a shaking heap against the inside of the door. It was broken, it was always broken, they'd stopped trying to fix it last spring and just left the out of order sign taped to the orange cone outside the door--always broken, always breaking down, what was the point in fixing it?

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _breathe._

 _A lethal impression. A very particular kind of role model._

He was crying, Athos realized, from somewhere still outside his body, wracking silent sobs that shook the door behind him and wrenched his lungs in and out, huge gasps that didn't leave any air for anything but crying. That was why he couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop.

Nobody would find him here. He could just cry until he choked himself, that would be--

No, that wouldn't be fine. Fine with him, but not with. Not with.

Maybe he should call them, maybe they could come--but they needed to study, they had to study, they cared about their fucking grades in a way he just couldn't anymore, they had futures ahead of them when he didn't have anything anymore. He couldn't fence, he couldn't teach now that Richelieu had ripped him apart in front of Professor Connolly--was going to rip him apart in front of everyone--so what the fuck was left for him? He wouldn't have Aramis and Porthos once they knew. It was all going to come out now, he was sure of it, Richelieu was going to make sure of it, and he'd lose the only family he had now, the only family he'd ever wanted.

All over again. He'd lose everything all over again. Like. Like he'd lost. 

Like he'd _killed--_

His head hurt. He was hitting it against his knees, pulled up to his chest. Bone on bone, the impact each time making his teeth rattle, but it was something he could feel. 

His head hurt. His face hurt, his chest hurt. But he was coming back into his body, at least. He could feel every part of himself aching like he'd been running for years and hadn't stopped.

Well, he had been.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he finally lifted his head. Everything seemed muted and quiet in the dim, dusty bathroom, and Athos looked around with aching, bleary eyes. He wondered if anyone else ever used this place--really no more than a closet, it had to be as old as the original building--to hide from everything. 

Aramis had probably had sex in here.

He almost laughed at the thought as he dragged himself to his feet, fingers digging into the stone of the wall to hold himself up. He'd have to ask. Sometime. 

The faucet still worked, a little slow and sputtering but cold enough, and Athos splashed water on his face, soaking the cuffs of his coat and not really caring, before he dared to look at himself in the mirror.

Oh, fuck, they'd know right away.

He stared at his bloodshot, swollen eyes, the wreck of his beard, his nose (far redder than he could ever conceivably pretend the cold was responsible for), and belatedly looked down at his clothes. His coat was covered in dust from the door, the floor; the knees of his jeans--Aramis' jeans--were soaked through with tears and snot from his breakdown.

His hands were still a little numb, but he got his phone out of his pocket and opened their app without dropping it. 

[delivered my papers, don't want to distract you from your studying. going to distract self instead at the campus center. see you after your final?]

[Text message: Porthos]  
[if u don't eat, we can get late dinner after!]  
[but plz eat]

[Text message: Aramis]  
[:* :* <3]

He took a deep breath, wrote back [I promise I'll eat], and put his phone back in his pocket. 

-

He didn't eat. Which turned out to be the least important promise he broke. 

There were a few groupings of chairs scattered through the lower levels of the campus center, and Athos grabbed a copy of the campus news and dropped himself aimlessly in a cow-patterned armchair. He had vague thoughts about just staying there until Porthos and Aramis texted him.

Of course, he was still dissociating, half-numb and all-exhausted, so he didn't realize how much time he'd spent staring into space and flicking unseeing through the newspaper until the student workers opened the door to the Louvre across the hall. 

He blinked, looking up at the soft, inviting lights of the pub. How it had become seven o'clock without his noticing? He looked at the window to the backyard terrace, because--yes, it was dark. Aramis and Porthos' test was starting soon. He'd missed dinner; the dining hall above him would be closing.

Not that he was hungry: his stomach was still jittery and heavy, and the thought of putting anything food-like in it was not appealing, at all. Serge's grill in Alexander's dining hall would be open until ten, he could still get something later. 

He got up, his aching body protesting the hunched-over slouch he'd been sitting in for hours on end, and walked across the hallway to the pub. It was darker in there, not like the fluorescents over his cow chair, and his head was still throbbing from his crying jag.

The thought of having alcohol on his breath when Aramis and Porthos met up with him later was the only thing that stopped Athos from ordering a beer. He got a glass of water from Candace behind the bar, successfully evaded her conversation about the education seminar they'd shared last spring, and went to the booth in the darkest corner of the pub. 

As the evening drifted on toward eight, the room began to fill. It had been dark for hours now, and felt much later than it was for the rest of the normal humans who'd paid attention to time passing--and it was the last day of finals, people were done, they were ready to celebrate. They filled every square inch of the dance floor, crowded the bar and the tables around the room, screamed along to lyrics and hung off their friends with the pure, unabashed joy of students freed. 

The throb of the music didn't bother him, funnily enough. His headache had gone, to be replaced with a buzzing static of anxiety about Richelieu, the hearing, the censure surely coming from his professors now that Richelieu had spoken to them all. The music drowned it out. The shouts of the other students screaming over the bass and each other kept his own screeching head quiet. Still, he felt distant and disconnected from it all, his body half-numb and his head filled with fog. 

Until the crowd shifted, and there was Anne at the bar.

When their eyes met, he slammed back into his body like Lucifer crashing into hell. 

His heart hurt, pounding on his ribs fit to break them, and his eyes burned with the sting of fresh tears over old, and. 

And.

And it all made sense, really.

She picked her bottle of Stella off the counter and walked through the gap in the crowd to him, and he slid to one side of his booth to let her in.

"I'd thought," he said, "that Richelieu must have heard about it all from the Red Guard. But seeing you now, I realized he couldn't have."

"Oh?" She took a sip of her drink. They barely had to raise their voices to be heard; the dance floor was at the far end of the bar, and their corner was quiet. "Do you mean four years ago, or do you mean the party?"

Athos stared at her, at the inky spill of her hair over her shoulders, the curve of her swan's neck as she tilted her head back to drink. How sick was it, that she still felt real to him, when he was at his most distant and shattered. "Both."

He didn't have to explain any more. That was the other sick thing. Their shared history twisted around them, tying them even tighter to each other. Four years ago--his parents had kept it out of the media enough that no one could have known Athos' own _lethal impression_. The Red Guard, no matter how many of them had gone to school with him, couldn't have known. 

And none of the Red Guard had been at that party. 

He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "I'd thought it was a student who'd turned me in. I forgot staff could file Honor Code violations, too." _I'd wanted to think better of you, for once in my pathetic, miserable life._

Her green eyes were gray in the filtered amber light, the dim glow casting everything in a monotone sepia. She took another drink of her beer before she answered, her gaze never leaving his. "It didn't seem fair," she said finally, her voice still dripping with such honey, "that you got to walk away clean."

He was amazed his own voice stayed steady. "That year I lost wasn't punishment enough for you?"

Her eyes flashed, rage sparking so familiar in her gaze. "Bouncing back and forth between mommy and daddy's prepaid hospital wings, you mean? I was in _prison._ "

For just a second Athos could smell the antiseptic and linoleum of his self-made cell, the churning guilt coming back like a punch to the gut--he'd known what she was going through. Some days it had been the thing that stopped him from getting out of bed, the guilt and the regret for her almost as all-consuming as the constant grief and self-loathing for Thomas--

"I lost _everything_ ," she hissed. 

She'd lost the world she'd worked so hard to build. He'd lost his sanity. They'd both been in the absolute worst nightmare they could have imagined for themselves. 

That didn't make any of it okay. 

"It isn't just my life you're ruining anymore," Athos said, his chest aching from the pressure, from the remnants of his breakdown (from the thought of Aramis and Porthos, being so kind and so good because they had no idea of the hell he carried around with him). "I have people, Anne. Good people."

Her eyebrows rose in flat disdain. "Like I was your person?"

Anger. That was an emotion he could feel that wasn't shame, or guilt. "They are _nothing,_ " he snarled, "like you were to me--the life I have with them--"

She laughed, cutting him off, rich contralto cold as ice. "You think that life will last? That cozy little lie you've built up, that you're _fine,_ that you're healthy?" She flicked a hand dismissively. "I know you who are better than they ever will."

"You're wrong," he snapped. "You're wrong, I'm better." _I'm getting better._

Anne smirked at him, her eyes flicking over his face, his hands clenched on the tabletop. She knew all his signs, his trigger marks. She knew exactly what was happening inside him, because the stupid broken child he'd been had confided in her, had told her just how to read him and just where to hit him so he'd shatter.

"Did you get rid of the pills?" she asked. 

_Lethal._

The static tinges of panic crowded in at the edge of his vision, his heart twisting up so tight he couldn't breathe.

God. _Fuck._

Anne smiled. "No one knows you like I know you."

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "You're wrong."

He heard her pick up her beer, heard the swish and felt her movement, knew she was knocking back the rest of it. The bottle clinked on the table when she set it back down. 

"Prove it, Athos."

Her hand was cold in his, damp from the bottle of beer, and he followed her in a haze of dizzy panic and churning anger and he was _tired_. 

He was so tired of holding himself up, being upright and being sane and being stable, of trying to be this person who wasn't sick, who was new and brave and _all right._

Maybe he never could get away from this. 

If she were right, if this was all he could ever be, maybe this was the best he could hope for: dancing with her, their bodies crushed together by the crowd and the noise, humid and hot and thudding with music like every night of their wild younger years.

They still fit. They still could move in sync, in perfect sync--he followed perfectly where she led, fit himself along her and let go. He didn't have to try to be better. He didn't have to pretend he was anything more than the wrecked pile of damaged goods he really was. 

She was his first for so many things.

She had her face tucked into the curve of his shoulder, the bridge of her nose nestled under the arch of his collarbone, her arms hanging around his neck, and her hair was still so soft under his cheek, that same floral smell that used to drag him under as fast as the pills could. His hands were loose on her hips, letting her move, letting her lead him. He felt hollow-boned, like a bird, fragile.

This was familiar, so familiar, and she'd always known how to ground him, hadn't she?

This was all he'd ever been good at.

Her cheek brushed soft against his, and he hurt all over, and he let his lips fall open at the touch of hers. 

She smelled like flowers, her fingers were warm little pinpricks against his neck, digging in, and when her tongue swept lightly against his--

It was bitter, from the beer.

Bitter, and in his head he remembered kissing her with a bitter dissolve of white on his tongue, her sweet and hazy smile, all their kisses bitter-tasting and lingering in those days--

And then Thomas' vacant eyes stared up at him, like he'd seen them every time he'd closed his eyes for days and weeks and months. 

He jerked back, and she looked up at him, shock and anger and a realization growing in her eyes--

And they were pressed in on all sides by people, bodies writhing and bass shaking the floor, it was hot and it smelled like booze and it was too much and--

\--and--

\--and he'd cheated on Porthos and Aramis.

"Athos," Anne said, and he turned and ran.

He stumbled through the dancing crowd, their waving elbows and shoulders knocking him back and forth because his legs refused to cooperate with the rest of him, and how could he have done this, _how could he have done this?_ How had he let her get so close, how had he _believed_ so much of her fucking poison? 

His coat was in the corner they'd abandoned, her lone bottle of beer still standing abandoned on the table, and Athos threw the frayed wool over his shoulders as he staggered out of the pulsing, throbbing nightmare his little safe haven had become.

He'd kissed her. He'd danced with her, he'd kissed her, but more than that--he'd let her into his head again, he'd bought all the _bullshit_ she always fed him, the sick lies that made him think he needed her, that made him think he couldn't survive without her--how had he let that happen? How weak was he, how fucking _pathetic_ of a human was he, that he'd let it happen _again?_

He fumbled his key card out of his pocket, leaning heavily on the solid wooden door of his dorm, and his shaking hands took three tries to swipe himself in. But it was worse when he was inside--the cold had been bracing, but it was too warm in here, the air too thick and muggy and making him think of the fucking pub, the fucking dance. 

Upstairs--pounding up three flights of stairs because what if there was someone else in the elevator, what if it was one of his residents, what the _fuck_ would he look like right now, how could he save this--upstairs was no better.

He threw open the window in his room, shed his coat and his shoes, dug everything out of his pockets so they'd stop fucking _touching_ him, but he was too hot, his skin crawling with the memory of her hands all over him, and every nerve in his body was _screaming._

_You fucked up, you fucked up for real this time, congratulations, you get to tell them you fucking cheated!_

Not just a kiss, not just a dance, but forgetting them, forgetting all the love they'd poured into this, poured over him, all the love he didn't fucking deserve, and he could still smell fucking jasmine thick in his nose--

It all chased itself around and around and around in his head, screaming mistakes and disgust and loathing and hatred and shame, shame, shame so thick he couldn't breathe, couldn't stop sobbing, couldn't stop pacing and he just needed it to _STOP--_

He wrenched open his desk drawer, grabbed the bag of pills, and swallowed them all dry.

That, his fucking traitorous body still remembered.

There.

_There._

He sat down heavily on his bed and dropped his head into his hands, done. Defeated.

There.

Like a warm wave, it washed over him, familiar and comforting and calling him gently, sweetly under. 

The screaming in his head stopped. The sobbing evened out, his chest easing out of its knot for the first time all day. Thank God, thank fuck, it _stopped_ , he could just sit and have it be blessedly fucking silent. His body unknit itself, the aches and pains slowly disappearing. 

It took him too long to realize that everything else was disappearing, too. 

He lifted his head, and it was too heavy, swaying on his neck. It didn't hit him like this usually, he thought, bemused. It wasn't this kind of high. 

His hands felt clumsy, his legs beyond his sense of feeling, and Athos slowly realized he couldn't stand up. He thought about it, he tried to, but. 

_But it didn't happen this way,_ he thought futilely, remembering every time he'd done this before, years ago. It'd stop the screaming, stop the panic and the pain, but that was all, it wouldn't. Wouldn't. Not this numbness, not this heaviness. 

His chest felt small.

 _Tolerance,_ something screamed in his head, something that could have been Aramis. Could have been Thomas. _You don't have a tolerance anymore._

It had been four years. Yes, that sounded right. Tolerance. That was why he was so sleepy.

Could he breathe?

Athos lurched upright, the danger finally lancing through his fog. His legs were numb already, and he crashed down hard, the impact sending his jaw snapping up and rattling his teeth, but even the pain was far away, through a blanket of haze.

His phone was on the windowsill. 

He crawled. The room seemed twice as long, but the far-distant klaxon shrieking in his head kept him moving. This was wrong. This was all wrong. 

He'd just wanted it all to stop.

His phone felt like a brick when he pawed it off the shelf, and the screen swam in his vision, numbers and letters blurring into each other. Their app. He'd left their app open, hadn't he? 

He needed to lie down, he couldn't keep his head up and hold the phone at the same time. Even as the still-awake part of him cried out not to, he slumped over on the floor, staring fixedly at the phone. 

One finger at a time. One letter at a time.

Thomas had been stretched out on the floor, too, just like this.

 _Oh, God,_ he thought, the horror finally reaching him just when it couldn't scare him anymore. 

He sent one message, started a second, but he couldn't make his hand move anymore. It fell limp on the floor, the phone face-up in his palm. 

He stared at it as the color leached from the world around him, as the sensation faded in his arms, as the phone lit up and buzzed in his hand, over and over. 

Aramis. Porthos.

_Bzz bzz._

He closed his eyes.

_Bzz bzz._

 

_Bzz bzz._

 

_Bzz bzz._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me thirty chapters, but I swear this was supposed to be the climax all along. <3 Well, climax part deux, after Thanksgiving weekend. If you need me, [find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)
> 
> Shout out to my odem for #aramis probably had sex here.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos handle the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first scribblings of this chapter are dated September 7 of two whole years ago, so thank you all for your patience while I found time to wrangle them into an actual chapter, while settling into my first solo apartment and starting grad school. <3 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for mentions of canonical backstory character deaths, mentions of drug use, and speculation on suicidal ideation. If that's not specific enough, message me on Tumblr and I'm happy to clarify.

Aramis reached over his head and stretched luxuriously, and half a dozen vertebrae popped in his spine. "Ow, fuck."

"That's what you get for sitting so cramped up," Porthos said, but he reached over and put a hand on the back of Aramis' neck anyway, massaging gently at the tense muscles as they walked down the hall. Aramis arched up into his touch, practically purring like a cat, self-satisfied and coasting on it.

"Misbah was right," Aramis yawned as they crossed the foyer and headed down the steps to the main door. "That wasn't nearly as hard as the midterm--oh, Jesus _fuck,_ it's fucking cold." He'd pushed open the door mid-sentence and gotten a faceful of frigid air. His curse turned into clouds in the air in front of them, and Porthos laughed.

"Wonder if we'll get snow," he mused.

"I fucking hope not," Aramis muttered, leading the way down the path back home.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and a second later, they heard the telltale buzz of Porthos' going, too. Athos, then. They grinned at each other as Aramis paused to dig his phone out from under the layers of coat and hoodie, and Porthos pressed up against his side to read over his shoulder. 

There was a new message in their app, and Aramis thumbed it open.

_[Athos: did something stupid_  
 _oxy ativ diaz_   
_call ems this time]_

It seemed to take forever for those three lines to make sense, for anything rational to come from the jumbled letters.

Then numb panic cascaded down Aramis' spine. He looked up into Porthos' frozen face, and Porthos stared back, looking younger than Aramis had ever seen him.

They took off at a dead run down the path.

Aramis slammed at the _call_ button on his phone as they ran. "I'm calling him, I'm calling him right now, call campus security--"

Porthos tore off his glove and grabbed his phone from his coat pocket, his hands shaking as he dialed. 

The distance between the quad and their dorm seemed longer than it ever had before--it kept doubling, stretching further away like they were in a fucking funhouse, and Aramis listened to Athos' phone ring and ring and ring in his ear.

Porthos had never sounded so panicked. "Yeah, I need an ambulance at Alexander Hall, _right now,_ my boyfriend--fucking--fuck, my boyfriend just texted me, he--"

"Porthos, he's not answering--"

And then suddenly they were there, stumbling up the steps and fumbling with an ID card to swipe the door open. It took three tries, Aramis' hands were shaking so badly, and the second the door unlocked Porthos nearly ripped it off its hinges getting it open.

They bolted for the stairs in unison, half-blind with fear. Adrenaline and anxiety made them dizzy as they rushed up the narrow, spiraling stairwell. Aramis swayed and nearly hit the wall at their landing, and it was only Porthos' hand that kept him upright as they shoved through the door.

Porthos was still on the phone with campus police, stumbling over his words as they raced down the hall, and Aramis knew why--what if Athos locked the door again? "Yeah, Alexander fourth, it's the RA's room--I think, at least, shit--"

Aramis threw his whole body weight into the door and miraculously the handle turned--the door swung open and--

And Athos was on the floor, curled on his side, and Aramis' missed calls lit up the phone in his limp hand.

Aramis staggered and fell to his knees beside him with a cry. 

"Athos, Athos," Aramis said frantically, touching his face, his hair, his lips-- "Babe, come on, it's us, please, love--" This couldn't be happening, this -couldn't be happening-- -

Athos lay still and silent under him as Aramis rolled him over--totally still, no rise or fall of his chest, and Aramis couldn't feel his pulse when he felt for it.

Porthos slid slowly down the doorframe to the floor. "He isn't breathing."

Six summers as a lifeguard took over, and Aramis tried to swallow down his own panic as he rolled Athos onto his back. He'd trained other people to do CPR for years. He could do this.

He could do CPR on his unconscious, maybe-dead boyfriend.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears in and put his hands on Athos' chest. Compressions. One. Two. Three. Four.

Dimly, he heard other sounds behind him in the hallway. Porthos, hanging up with campus sec. "Okay, just--just hurry, fucking hurry, please." Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Porthos' ragged breathing. 

Footsteps, someone else. "Porthos?" D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan didn't need to see this, but fuck, what could they do? Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. "Oh--oh, oh, my God--"

Twenty nine, thirty. Athos' eyes were still closed, no perfect blue looking up at Aramis with irritation and fondness. Aramis tilted his head, lifted his chin. Still no breathing. 

"Get Constance, will you, just--have her keep everyone inside--" 

Mouth to mouth. _Do not think about the last kiss, about the taste of his lips or the way he smiles._ Breathe. _Did his chest rise? Yes, yes, thank you, God, yes._ Breathe for him. Breathe again. 

Repeat. Compressions. One. Two.

Behind him, Constance screamed.

Somewhere in the haze of his focus, Aramis realized he was crying--hot tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto his hands, onto Athos' face when he bent to breathe for him again and again. He didn't know what else to _do._ Athos wasn't moving, wasn't answering at all, but his lips were less blue, his face less pale, and maybe Aramis was helping. 

_Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo--Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre-- Jesus, oh, God, Jesus, Mary, mother of mercy, please, I love him, please don't let him die--_

"Aramis," Porthos' breaking voice came, and Porthos' hands on his shoulders pulling him back. "Babe, you did so good, but they're here, you gotta move--"

Aramis let Porthos move him, his limbs heavy and slow like he was in a nightmare, and when he looked down he saw Athos' phone still held in his limp hand. Aramis picked it up, felt his hand curl around the hard plastic, and he pocketed it as Porthos tugged him back into the hall, as black-suited EMTs flooded past them.

Constance and d'Artagnan were there, d'Artagnan's arm around Constance's shoulder as tears flowed down her face. The hallway lights were too bright, and Aramis watched everything happen around him like he wasn't part of it.

One of the EMTs was talking to them, he realized dimly. She was giving him that same look his cousin Yvette had given him when they talked about Tia Felicia's breakdown last Christmas--half-grave, half-pitying.

Oh, right, she was talking. "Do you know what he took?"

Porthos still had his phone in his shaking hand, and he passed it over, opening up their app. "He, um, he sent us this maybe--maybe fifteen minutes ago? Shit, I don't know how long it's been--"

It felt like hours, Aramis agreed, staring into the room at the people kneeling around--Athos, he couldn't see Athos any more, he'd disappeared under the press of paramedics--they were all over him, swarming around him and blocking him from view-- _You have to be careful with him,_ Aramis wanted to scream, _be careful, he breaks easily--_

Porthos' hand closed painfully on his arm, and Aramis sucked in a gasp, dragging his focus back to the woman in front of them. 

"--But then, it may not be as bad as that," she was saying, and Aramis was viscerally, shamefully grateful he hadn't heard whatever she'd said to terrify Porthos like that. "It's good we got here so quickly, and that you gave him CPR," she added, looking more kindly at Aramis. "You probably saved his life."

Porthos' arm around him curled even tighter, and Aramis pressed himself into Porthos' side with a despairing laugh. He couldn't muster up any pride or comfort from that. _Probably_ was not good enough.

"We're ready to go, Morales," one of the people inside called, and the woman glanced in and nodded. 

She looked back at the two of them, and her brow furrowed in faint confusion before she covered it up with a smooth smile. "There's room for someone to ride with him--maybe his boyfriend...?"

She left it hanging, looking hopefully between Aramis and Porthos, and Aramis wanted to throw up.

"Only one of us?" he asked in horror. "Can't--can't we both--?"

"There's only room for one," she said gently, still looking confused. She hadn't realized it was the three of them--she thought they could just take two and leave one--

"You go," Porthos said, and Aramis cracked his neck turning to stare at him. 

Tears lined the edges of Porthos' eyes, but he looked resolute. "You go, I'm--" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard and almost laughed, ducking his head. "I'm a fucking mess, I'll just lose my shit, you go." 

"We need to leave," the EMT prodded them gently, and Aramis couldn't help the way his hand tightened on Porthos' arm--he didn't want to leave him alone, he didn't want to go--

"We can take the car," d'Artagnan cut in, his own hoarse voice ragged but firm. Aramis had completely forgot d'Artagnan and Constance were standing there--but d'Artagnan was right, absolutely right, Athos' keys were right there on the desk and Aramis was sure that just this once, he wouldn't mind them taking the car without asking-- He turned to them, not bothering to hide the pleading on his face, because he couldn't leave Porthos alone but he couldn't let them take Athos without _anyone_.

Constance, her face glazed with tears, wiped at her eyes and nodded. "You go, Aramis, we'll get some stuff and follow." She sounded steady, and Porthos looked like he was about to cry again, and Aramis looked around at the EMT. 

"Okay, I'll go with you, give me a sec--"

She nodded, and as the rest of the ambulance crew started to lift the stretcher, Aramis turned back to Porthos and threw his arms around him. Porthos caught him and held him so tightly Aramis couldn't breathe--he didn't want to breathe, didn't need to right now. 

"Call me," Porthos whispered. "If--if anything--I wanna hear it from you, nobody else--"

Aramis caught his face and kissed him before Porthos could say anything that could break his heart even more. "I love you, I promise I will--"

"All right, let's go," the EMT yelled for him, and Aramis ripped himself away and followed at a run. 

The trip to the local hospital passed in a terrifying haze of words and sounds he didn't understand, while the only parts of Athos' face he could see were too pale and too still. The EMTs had questions he didn't know how to answer--yes, Athos probably did have a doctor in Boston, no, Aramis didn't know who or where--

"I don't know where he got them," Aramis said for the third time, his voice cracking. "I told you, I don't know where the pills came from, I only know it _was_ pills because he said so."

The lady EMT gave him a look. "What else could it have been?"

Aramis rubbed at his forehead, trying to make the aching sting of tears go away. "He--he's drunk too much before, he got alcohol poisoning once."

"Are drug and alcohol abuse common for him?"

Aramis opened his mouth to say _no, God, no,_ but.

But.

Jesus Christ.

"I don't know," he whispered, pressing hard at his temples. "Fuck, I really don't know. He doesn't talk about--about what his life was like before college."

She sat silent for a moment, maybe writing something down, and Aramis tried to focus his ears on the wailing of the siren instead of the beeping of Athos' heart monitor. 

Then she said, very seriously, "Do you have any reason to think this was a suicide attempt?"

Aramis' whole world froze.

_Not until you said that._

Athos hadn't been okay, no, but. 

But.

Had they missed it? Had something been _that wrong_ and they'd missed it? 

Oh, Mary, mother of God, _had Athos tried to kill himself?_

Aramis covered his face with his hands, tears leaking out despite everything he could do to stop them. "I don't know." His voice broke, high and thin, and he swallowed, hard. "I don't know, I have no idea, I wish I did."

She said something else, maybe it was supposed to be comforting--he didn't care. He couldn't hear her over the screaming replay of the last two weeks blasting at high-speed through his head. Athos going quiet instead of talking, Athos turning away instead of coming closer, Athos shrinking into himself while he and Porthos had just acted like everything was fine--

Oh, God, fuck, please no, please, they couldn't have missed that! 

Aramis pressed his hands to his mouth to keep the sobs in. God, please-- And then the ambulance slowed and stopped, and the paramedics surged into action again. 

He followed them, his heart beating too hard and too fast, and everything was too bright, too much, too real. Athos was strapped on the gurney with the oxygen mask hiding his face, so pale and still it made Aramis want to vomit--

And then the one who'd talked to them--he couldn't remember her name, didn't care anymore--grabbed his wrist, stopping him. She was walking him back, away from the gurney as it rattled down the hall, and no, _no,_ she _couldn't_ \-- "Visitors have to stay in the waiting room, I'm sorry--"

"I have to go with him," Aramis said, staring desperately after them--he could just barely see Athos through the group of EMTs--he couldn't let him out of his sight, he'd promised. "I have to, I can't--"

"I'm sorry, you'll have to wait out here." 

Aramis shook his head wildly, straining against her hold. "I can't, I _cannot_ do that, I have to--"

She hadn't let go of his arm, and she was pulling him even further back, away from the doors. "The waiting room's just this way, I'll show you."

"No," Aramis said, trying to move past her--damn, she was all muscle, though, holding him back as easily as Porthos could. Tears stung his eyes again as she moved him inexorably away from where they were taking Athos, he couldn't even see him anymore-- "No, I have to--he can't--he can't wake up alone, all right, you have to understand, I have to be there--"

"He's not going to wake up in ICU," she told him, her voice cool and firm, and Aramis tore his eyes from the gurney to stare at her.

She looked tired, serious, and Aramis felt like a stupid, small child in the face of this woman's implacable gravity. "It may be a while before he wakes up," was all she said then. "You can wait, they'll tell you if there's a change."

Aramis understood in that moment: this uncertainty was all he was going to get. 

For now. 

Maybe forever. 

He let another nurse walk him to the waiting room, and he went to the chairs they pointed him to. The ER was crowded. Parents with crying children, people on their own looking nervous, people holding hands and people staring at the ceiling. 

Aramis walked to a strip of empty chairs, half a thought in his head for Porthos, a place for Porthos when Porthos came. He couldn't think about it too much. His head wasn't working. So much had happened, and it was all catching up with him. 

But as he sank into the chair, an unfamiliar weight against his left leg registered in his numbness. 

He still had Athos' phone in his pocket.

Aramis fished it out, reflexively wiped at the smudged screen, and carefully entered Athos' passcode. He didn't know what he was expecting, or what he was going to do with it. Maybe just call Porthos, to tell him what was going on--or flip through the pictures and find something--maybe call Treville, to ask him to please do something because Aramis and Porthos were just fucking _kids_ still, how could they handle this?

But when the lock screen disappeared and the last thing Athos had done lit up the phone, every nerve in Aramis' body went cold with pain.

Their messaging app was still open, and Athos' message to them--the one that had saved his life--made Aramis' eyes sting again.

And then, in the composing window, unfinished and unsent:

[im sorry. i love y]

Oh, _Athos._

The squeezing, crushing pain in his chest was visceral and inescapable, and Aramis did the only thing he could do at that point.

He dragged his knees up to his chest, buried his face in his thighs, and started to cry.

 

\--

 

"Okay." Porthos sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor where Athos had sprawled out unconscious. "I. Um."

He couldn't think. He couldn't see anything but Athos on the floor. 

Constance sat down beside him, her arm slipping into his as she pressed her shoulder against him. "Oh, Porthos." She sounded like she had a cold, and Porthos only then realized she'd been crying. 

He hadn't been able to look at anyone but Athos. At Aramis, kneeling there and trying to save him. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. 

He couldn't stop seeing it in his head. Athos on the floor, so pale he was almost blue. Aramis like something out of a movie, so steady-- And Porthos himself, just. Shocked and fucking useless. 

Constance slipped one of her hands into his, and squeezed. Porthos realized, then, that his hands were shaking. 

Athos hadn't been breathing. 

Porthos had never seen anyone be that still and not be dead already. 

Athos' gym bag landed on the floor in his line of sight, and Porthos jerked his head up to stare at d'Artagnan. The kid was going through the closet and taking things out. 

"Two changes of clothes," d'Artagnan said to himself, and went for the corner of Athos' closet where Porthos and Aramis kept their own things. As Porthos watched, d'Artagnan took a pair of Aramis' jeans and folded them, then turned and dropped them in the gym bag. He did the same for a pair of Porthos' jeans, and then two of Aramis' shirts. Two of Porthos' shirts. Underwear. Socks. Aramis' Kings hoodie, Porthos' Captain America sweatshirt. 

"The hospital can give you toothbrushes," d'Artagnan said over his shoulder, only half-tilting his head towards Porthos. "I wouldn't bring one. Where do you keep deodorant?" Porthos pointed wordlessly to the shelf by the mirror, and d'Artagnan nodded, moving around the room like it was his own. Like he could just step in and do this--

Oh. Like he'd done it before. 

Porthos had never asked d'Artagnan how his dad had died, if it had been drawn out or sudden or what. D'Artagnan had never asked Porthos how his mom had died, either, but it was something they'd always known they'd shared. 

Something the two of them shared with Athos--about his brother--

"Would Aramis want this?" D'Artagnan turned from the vanity with the wooden beads of Aramis' rosary dangling from his fingers. 

Porthos' throat hurt from trying not to cry. "I'll take it, yeah."

As d'Artagnan finished packing up the bag, as Constance mapped out the best route to the hospital on her phone, Porthos kept the rosary wrapped around his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the beads. It felt a little like holding Aramis' hand. He'd never actually held Aramis' rosary before--it had belonged to Aramis' _abuela_ , when she was a kid growing up in San Bernardino. She gave it to Aramis when he started school, so he'd have the family with him. 

Aramis had wrapped it around his fingers like this, when Athos had drunk too much that night, when they'd stayed up all night to make sure he didn't--

Fuck. He still remembered the feeling--the _lack_ of feeling, of Athos lying so still in bed, drunk off his ass and dead to the world. Keeping Athos pressed into the curve of his own body had seemed like the best way to make sure Athos stayed on his side all night, so Porthos had held him, kept his hand on Athos' stomach to make sure he could feel it rising and falling. 

What a fucking joke he'd played on himself, convincing himself back then that he'd only wanted Aramis. How had he not known--fuck, especially that night, carrying him and holding him and staying up all night thinking _don't you fucking do it, don't you dare do this shit to me, Athos,_ that the bastard already had half of his heart?

"Porthos," Constance said, pulling him out of his thoughts with a hand on his arm. "You ready to go?"

Porthos lifted his head, taking a deep breath--and wiping his eyes, fuck, he was crying again. "Yeah," he said, standing up and pushing the rosary into his pocket. 

They let him sit alone in the back, Constance driving and d'Artagnan quietly navigating for her. Porthos did his level best not to panic as he sat there, staring out the window. Half of him wanted to text Aramis, to find out what was going on, if there was any news--the rest of him couldn't stand to bother him, if Aramis was doing something important--

If there was _bad_ news--

But then they were at the hospital, and Constance and d'Artagnan were following the signs to the emergency room and he was following them, and--he really couldn't avoid it anymore.

His first thought was that he'd never seen an emergency room this fucking empty-- _the fucking sticks of Massachusetts versus New York City,_ his brain filled in--but then he saw Aramis. He sat in one of the hard plastic chairs, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head bent. When he lifted his head, Porthos saw tears on his cheeks.

He knew, he really did, that Aramis was allowed to just be crying about the whole thing. But seeing those fresh tears, all Porthos' heart could scream was _there's news, it's bad, it's bad news--_

"Aramis," he tried not to yell, as he made right for him, and Aramis' head whipped around. 

He was on the phone, he had that wide-eyed-little-kid-look that meant he was probably talking to his mom, and Porthos felt even worse to see Aramis hastily finish his call and shove his phone away--

But then Aramis was up and running to him, and Porthos was too grateful to have Aramis' arms around him to keep feeling shitty about it. 

"No news yet," Aramis said in his ear, his fingers digging in tight on Porthos' shoulders. "Mama says she loves you, too."

Porthos swallowed down the sudden, burning ache in his throat. "No news?" he asked, so he wouldn't embarrass himself asking to call Catalina back. He didn't want to call Flea or Lu. He didn't want them to know until he knew how the story ended.

Aramis pulled him down into a chair. "Not yet." But his eyes were tight around the corners, red-rimmed and swollen, and Porthos could tell he was chewing on something he didn't want to say. 

Porthos reached over to thread their fingers together, and he pulled Aramis' hand into his lap. "Tell me."

Aramis looked up at him, his eyes glossy with tears. "They--they asked me in the ambulance if." His voice cracked, and he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, like he was looking for strength, and Porthos' stomach dropped like a rock. 

Aramis took a deep breath and said in a rush, "If I had any reason to think it was a suicide attempt, but--"

A _what?_

Athos?

No. 

No, no--

"But I don't even know where he got the fucking things," Aramis finished helplessly, and Porthos could only share his confusion, his terror of _what no how_ \--

A high gasp cut into his thoughts, and he turned to see Constance covering her mouth, she and d'Artagnan sitting in the chairs beside them. He'd forgotten about them, seeing Aramis--but Constance looked like--like she _knew_ something. 

"What?" Porthos demanded. 

She looked up at him with her eyes full of tears, and took her hands away from her mouth. "He told me, after that party," she said, her voice as low and ragged as his, "that he used to get high with that--with his girlfriend, before."

Before? Before when? Which--

Oh. Her, that--the one who--

"Was she the one," Aramis said, his voice paper-thin and crumpled, "he--he made himself sick, after seeing?"

D'Artagnan's head came up sharply. "She was at the party."

The party. 

That fucking party. 

"He got the pills from her there," Aramis said. It was like he was folding in on himself, collapsing in his seat. "He's had them this--this whole time?"

Porthos couldn't hold into a thought--they were flashing through his head too fast to follow. The party? Pills. That--that girl, the old girlfriend, the night Athos got sick. 

Athos used to get high? 

Athos had told Constance that, and not the two of them.

How the fuck--but Athos _always_ told him shit, that was their _thing_ , Athos told him everything. Even when Athos had been--been _bad,_ he'd been able to tell Porthos--like at the fencing meet, or after that fight, he'd told Porthos--

No, the fencing meet, wait, he'd said--

"But he would have said _something,"_ Aramis said, his voice breaking. He looked so lost, like he had after Halloween, after the fight, before they'd fixed it all. "He might have--he should have known--he _trusts_ us, I can't believe he didn't say anything to me or to Porthos or--"

"Treville," Porthos said. 

Aramis' head came up, tears on his cheeks, and Porthos took a deep breath. It all clicked now. "Treville knows, Athos good as told me. He was so fucked up at the meet when he had that panic attack--he said Treville was going to be pissed, that Treville was going to think he'd gotten wasted. I didn't--" Didn't ask, didn't push, didn't get any details about how he might someday try to _kill himself--_

"Didn't want to make it worse," Porthos finished, instead of saying any of those things and making Aramis cry more. 

"It's not your fault," Constance whispered.

D'Artagnan nodded fiercely. "It's nobody's _fault_ \--"

Porthos couldn't stop himself, nasty and mean slicing sideways out of his mouth before he could swallow it back. "You sure about that, because I think it's fucking _somebody's--"_

Aramis' hand closed painfully tight on his, and Porthos snapped his mouth shut.

Fault. Somebody's _fault._

Was he gonna blame Athos, for getting so low this might have been all he could do? That fucking ex-girlfriend, if she gave him the shit? 

Himself, or Aramis, or any of them, for not noticing?

"Sorry," he whispered. He shrank down into his chair, dropped his head into his hands. He felt sick with how ashamed of himself he was right now. "Sorry, shit, sorry."

Aramis picked up their joined hands and kissed Porthos' knuckles. Porthos squeezed his hand weakly, one little pulse of apology. Surrender.

There was no point in _fault_ or _blame_. 

Not without a _why,_ anyway.

Shit.

"Porthos Duvallon? Aramis Herrera?"

Porthos jerked upright. Someone across the room was calling. His stomach lurched up into his throat, and Aramis squeezed his hand as he stood up. "Yes?"

The woman had a clipboard and a harried expression as she hurried up to them. "You're here with Athos de la Fere?"

"Yes," Porthos said, and he was on his feet, too, his hand finding Aramis' to cling again. "Is he--did something--?"

She smiled, brief but reassuring. "He's stabilized. His family's requested he be moved to Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston."

The whiplash of that made him sick again--the soaring relief to hear _stabilized_ , but then the drop, the fear of-- "They're moving him?" They were taking him away, they were gonna take him _away from them--_

"His family?" Aramis cut in, his voice cracking sharp.

The nurse checked her clipboard. "Yes, we spoke to his mother. She said you'd both be going with him?"

Aramis' mouth closed with a _click._

An awful silence stretched as Porthos and Aramis both pushed back the knee-jerk rush of fury at _Athos' mother said._ Porthos found his voice first. "His mom said what?"

She looked between the two of them, obviously confused by their confusion. "You are his partners, right? She said you could ride in the ambulance with him. You'll be allowed visitation at MGH."

Aramis' mouth dropped right back open. Porthos was right there with him. What the hell? "Madame de la Fere actually said we were his partners?" he repeated, feeling stupid and slow and sure that they'd think he and Aramis were lying, now, because they were clearly so fucking stunned by this--

The nurse smiled at them, her face softening in kindness. "Yes, she did," she said, like she understood now. "They'll be ready to move him soon, we'll send someone to…"

Porthos did his best to follow the rest of what she was saying, listen to where they were going to be next, but his head was too full of things to process that he only caught bits of it. Aramis was nodding and answering, though, so hopefully he'd have everything together. 

Athos' mom had said they could be with him. 

What the _hell?_

The nurse walked away, and he and Aramis turned to each other. Some of the color was coming back into Aramis' face, and he squeezed Porthos hand with the hint of hope flickering in his eyes. "Stable, and we can stay with him," he said, his lips curving up in a brave half-smile. 

It was more than they'd had five minutes ago. Porthos leaned in and kissed Aramis' forehead, and forced himself to smile, too. 

Aramis turned to Constance and d'Artagnan, his smile fading as he bit down on his lip. "I don't know if--"

"We'll take the car back to school," Constance said firmly. She looked better now, too, her and d'Artagnan both, after hearing the nurse. "D'Artagnan packed everything you'll need, so we'll go home and deal with all that there. Just-- just call and keep us posted."

Aramis' face fell a little, even as he nodded agreement. Porthos nodded, too, and just hoped they couldn't see his relief on his face. It was a shitty thing to think, but Porthos was glad they were going to go. He didn't really want anyone else around to see him lose his shit any more than he already had. Aramis having to see it was bad enough. 

"It's going to be okay," Constance whispered in his ear as she hugged him tightly. Porthos wrapped her up in his arms, choking down the lump in his throat. He couldn't believe she'd have extra comfort to spare for him right now, but he'd take it. 

D'Artagnan didn't say anything as he pulled Porthos into a quick, rough hug. Porthos clapped him on the back, hugging him a little tighter than he had Constance. D'Artagnan's gangly body was shivering, and Porthos hoped he'd have good news for the kid when they checked in next. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, to put any empty promises or false hope in the air, but he gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder and managed a smile all the same. Seeing d'Artagnan smile back made his chest ease a little. 

When their friends had left, he and Aramis sat back down, and their hands found each other again. 

"Do you think," Aramis began, still hoarse, but trailed off. When Porthos looked at him, Aramis' eyes were gleaming with tears again. After a moment's silence, he pressed his lips together and shook his head. 

Porthos nudged his arm against Aramis'. "C'mon."

Aramis leaned against him, turning his cheek to rest on Porthos' shoulder. "Do you think his mom would know if this was an accident or not?"

Porthos closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of Aramis' hair. If he did that, just that, he could almost pretend they were at home. "I dunno, babe."

He thought that question would be the thing that hurt the most tonight. 

He hadn't thought about the second ambulance ride.

Seeing Athos again, but not really Athos. Athos unconscious, with oxygen and monitors that meant they couldn't get close, Athos flat and still and… 

"Porthos." Aramis tugged gently on his hand, leading him around the ambulance to the front seat, where the two of them could were going to ride. Porthos went, because it was easier than fighting to stay with Athos--because he knew he couldn't stay with Athos anyway, because he didn't _want_ to stay with Athos when he looked like this. 

Fuck, that was shitty of him to think, to say, he shouldn't have--

"Porthos." Aramis' hands were on his face, and when Porthos blinked himself aware of him, he realized they were alone on the passenger side of the ambulance, the paramedics all clustered around the back and driver's side. Aramis was looking up at him, wide wet eyes pleading. "Love, talk to me?"

Porthos swallowed hard. He didn't mean to say it, but. "That was how she looked."

Aramis didn't get it, at first. He frowned a little, and he blinked, and then Porthos saw it in his face when he _got it._ Aramis' face fell, his lips parting in sick horror, and Porthos had never wanted to tell either of them this. He'd never wanted to see this look on Aramis' face. 

"Your mom?" Aramis asked, his voice shaky. "You--you found her, when she--?"

"I sat there and watched it happen." One minute she'd been breathing, the next she wasn't. Like Athos, like they'd fucking sat and watched him spiral down and down and not do anything about it until--

"Oh, _Porthos,"_ and then Aramis was dragging him into a hug, wrapping him up and holding Porthos tighter than Porthos had ever been held. Porthos buried his face in Aramis' hair, closed his eyes and breathed in and didn't let anything else into his head. 

"You're not gonna be alone," Aramis whispered, clinging to Porthos almost as hard as Porthos was clinging to him. "No matter what. I'll be here, okay? I'll be here." 

"I know." Porthos swallowed his tears and memorized the feeling of Aramis' body in his arms, strong and warm and _alive._ "I'm sorry, I know, I'm being so fucking stupid--"

"You're not," Aramis cut him off, low and reassuring. "You are absolutely not, my love."

The ride passed in a blur. It was dark, the black of the suburbs giving way eventually to the sprawl of Boston, with the beeping of the machines in the back the only sound in the cab. Porthos pressed his shoulder against Aramis, and their joined hands rested on Porthos' thigh. (He'd been too nervous, at first, to let their hands be seen--but then he realized Athos' mom had already given it away, they were only here because they _were_ Athos' _partners_ , so it was okay. Nobody had said anything mean. It was okay.)

Someone came out to meet them at the hospital. It was surreal. The night was catching up with Porthos, and when they climbed out of the ambulance cab to meet a smiling woman dressed like a high school principal, he thought for a second he was hallucinating. It was only when she introduced herself as an _administrator_ that Porthos realized this was because of Athos.

Because of his family. 

He should be angry, he knew, underneath the dizzy haze of grief and adrenaline crash. The part of him that had been looking for something to blow up at, to vent all this confusion and anger on, reared its head and wanted to yell. He wanted to be angry that Athos' money was the thing opening all these doors for them, giving him and Aramis this treatment that two brown boyfriends off the streets would _never_ get for anyone but a rich white partner. It was unfair, it was everything that was wrong with this fucking country, that obscene money was the only thing that could unlock human decency in medical care.

But as the kindly administration lady walked them inside, with the still-distant dawn starting to tint the sky above them, all Porthos' exhausted brain could be was thankful. 

Thankful, that Athos' family hadn't turned their back on him again.

"If you'd like to wait for him," the woman was saying, when Aramis slowed in his steps and squeezed Porthos' hand. 

Porthos blinked down at him, struggling to focus. "Babe?"

Aramis bit his lip, then smiled smoothly at the administrator. "Actually," he said, "I--was wondering if there was a chapel here." He looked at Porthos, the shine back in his eyes. "Do you mind?"

"'Course not," Porthos said, managing a smile for him, and when Aramis smiled back, grateful and open, Porthos' heart gave a painful thump of affection in his chest. 

He still had Aramis. He still had someone who'd hold his hand, who'd settle down beside him in the quiet, beautiful little hospital chapel, the stained glass windows starting to glow with the sky lightening outside.

"I brought these for you," Porthos said when the administrator had left, and it was just them, alone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Aramis' rosary, and Aramis' eyes filled with tears as he took it from Porthos' hand and kissed him in thanks.

When they drew back, Aramis' tears had spilled over his cheeks. "I had something to show you, too," he said. "I forgot, with--with everything, but I found it…"

He trailed off as he pulled his phone from his pocket--but no, not his phone, Porthos realized when he saw the lock screen with its picture of the fencing room. Athos' phone. 

Aramis opened it and passed it over, a painful look of tenderness on his face. It was their messaging app, still open, and--

Oh, fuck.

[im sorry. i love y]

Water dropped on the screen, a single drop magnifying _sorry_ and showing the cells of the screen all rainbow around it. _Sorry. Love. Sorry._

Porthos wiped furiously at his eyes and handed the phone back to Aramis. "I dunno if I'm gonna kiss him or kill him when he wakes up," he said, his voice barely sounding like himself through the tears and the love and the exhaustion.

Aramis reached up and gently drew him down, until Porthos' head lay cradled in Aramis' lap. "I know, love," Aramis said softly, and his fingertips combed through Porthos' hair, soothing his tension away.

As Porthos closed his eyes, the exhaustion sinking in for good, he heard Aramis whispering a gentle litany.

_Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know [where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the hospital, and at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HO HO HO MY DARLINGS MERRY CHRISTMAS, here is an extremely long chapter for you~~
> 
> Thank you all so so much for your patience in expecting updates now that I'm in school again. My first semester of grad school was AMAZING, and I think I've worked out scheduling enough that I might be able to get more writing time in the new year. Thank you and have a lovely holiday and New Year!

Aramis pushed his fingers through Porthos' hair, staring fixedly at the stained glass window above them. The rest of the chapel went out of focus around him, and his eyes watered, but it was soothing in a strange way.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to do what he needed to do. He needed to keep it together, for Porthos' sake, but he could barely hold his shit together for himself.

Porthos had been talking in his sleep--crying in his sleep. Aramis had been able to hush him, soothe him back into rest, but it broke his heart to hear _Mom_ tangled with _Athos,_ like Athos was already lost to them, too. 

Aramis was ashamed of himself. He hadn't expected this to hit Porthos so hard, but--of course it had, of course it would, Porthos had lost so many people in his life. And Athos was…

Athos was the first person to ever kiss Porthos in public, and Aramis knew what that meant to the still-so-damn-young man sleeping fitfully in his lap. 

Aramis had been so scared, had leaned on the two of them so much for so long--it was his turn, he felt deep in his chest, to let Porthos lean on him. He could put his own fear aside for now. He had his own family to support him if he needed a break, if he couldn't handle it all on his own, but for right now--for right now. For right now, Porthos deserved someone to carry him.

The stained glass windows were lit from outside now, dim sunlight suffusing the chapel in faint rainbows of color. Maybe it was visiting hours by now. Maybe they could go see Athos soon. 

As if the thought had awakened him, Porthos stirred in Aramis' lap. Aramis looked down, watched Porthos' face scrunch up as he pressed his forehead into the soft fabric covering Aramis' belly, and an almost unbearable surge of affection warmed him inside out. He was so in love with this man. He was so unbelievably in love with him. 

"Ar'mis?" Porthos mumbled, his fingers flexing in the fabric of Aramis' hoodie, and Aramis stroked over his hair, traced a thumb over his cheek.

"Hi," Aramis said softly. "Did you get some rest?"

Porthos groaned and rolled over onto his back, covering his face with one hand. "I fucking hurt all over." Aramis silently agreed; wooden pews weren't great for naps. They hadn't been in Catholic school, and they weren't any better now.

Porthos dragged his hand down his face and finally opened his eyes, blinking up at Aramis. "You sleep any?" 

Aramis shrugged, smoothing his fingertips over Porthos' brow before it could furrow in worry. "I'm okay." He might have dozed at some point. It was hard to tell, when everything was so still and quiet around him. But he always felt better just being in a quiet, sacred space, and his halfway-vigil had refreshed him emotionally, if maybe not physically. 

Porthos was gracious enough to let it go, if not to necessarily believe him, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position next to Aramis, groaning quietly and stretching out the kinks in his neck. "Time 's it?"

Aramis fished out his phone. It was almost eight in the morning, and his battery was blinking red. "Ten to eight. Fuck, I need to charge this."

"D'Artagnan packed shit," Porthos said, kicking lightly at the fencing bag on the floor of the pew. "Maybe we can find a bathroom or something, to change."

"Bless that boy." Aramis stretched, his cold and cramped muscles protesting, and he groaned and almost tipped over sideways into Porthos. 

Porthos chuckled softly and righted him. Before he could second-guess himself, Aramis leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Porthos' mouth. 

It didn't feel right to go for something bigger, not now, but--

Porthos sighed softly and tilted his head to brush their lips together, and Aramis ached with relief. It didn't last for more than a second, a gentle affirming more than anything else, but Aramis felt warmed through when he shifted to rest his head on Porthos' shoulder. 

They sat in the quiet for a little while longer, until the clunk-creak of the door made them both turn. 

It was the same administrator as before, ducking her head inside with a pleasant smile. "Good morning, sirs, I'm sorry to bother you--I was checking in to see if we could help you with anything."

The special treatment was weird and uncomfortable. Aramis was trying to think of it as meaning Athos would have the best care, but it still jarred him. No one would ever treat them like this without Athos' money behind it. Porthos was staring at her like she had two heads, so Aramis smiled and stood up. "Hi, thanks. Is there any place we could, ah, clean up a little?"

She blinked at him, and Aramis sighed inwardly. As casually as he could, he reached down for the handle of the duffle bag, and hoisted it up onto his shoulder like he was just waiting for her directions. She'd expected them to live nearby, or have someplace to go to clean up. Did she realize that home was an hour drive away for them?

"Oh, of course," she said hastily, her confusion clearing when she saw their bag. "There's a private restroom in Mr. de la Fere's room, you're very welcome to use that."

A private-- Aramis swallowed his surprise and kept his smile fixed. It wasn't all that shocking there was a private restroom in Athos' room, not when he thought about how much money his family probably had poured into this place.

But. Athos' room. 

"Thanks," Porthos said, surprising Aramis as he stood up. "Would you show us?"

Porthos was ashen-faced, and his hand shook when he slipped it into Aramis', but he followed the woman with his head held high. Aramis had never been more proud of him. 

They followed the administrator on a winding path through the main floor of the hospital, two different wings, and through another set of double doors into a quiet waiting room, with green walls and a soft gray carpet. 

As she led them through yet another door to a long hallway of rooms, Aramis caught a glimpse of the donor name in silver letters on the waiting room wall. He couldn't read it from where he was, but the shape of the name, two short little words to a bigger one--

De la Fere?

The hallway beyond seemed less sterile than the rooms they'd passed through before. There was less bustle, less of the sense that this could all change in an instant. These rooms, Aramis realized, were for longer stays. And then the administrator led them into the room at the end of the hall, and Aramis couldn't think of anything anymore except--

Oh, Athos.

After the terror of the night before, seeing Athos asleep in bed was almost anticlimactic. From the doorway, at least at first, Aramis didn't see the oxygen tube, the pulse monitor, the IV. It was just Athos. 

The oddest stray thought shattered the moment of illusion: Athos never slept on his back. If it were just Athos, their Athos, he'd be curled on his side, his face buried in the pillow and hidden by hair, all wrapped up tight to his own chest like someone was going to steal his heart away while he slept--

Aramis choked down a sob and sank into the chair beside the door. Athos. 

Porthos walked slowly to the side of the bed, the duffel bag falling from his limp fingers. He stood there, staring down at Athos with his dark eyes burning.

"He'll be unconscious for some time yet," the administrator said, and her voice was kind. She didn't seem fazed at all by their blatant emotion. "If you'd like to speak with his doctors later…"

Aramis had mastered compartmentalizing in his teens. He put his skills to work now, taking in everything she said and boxing it up in a corner of his mind to take out later when he needed it. He didn't need it right now. He needed to go hold Porthos, he needed to curl up next to Athos, he needed to cry his fucking brains out. 

But, compartmentalizing. He could thank her, smile, be effervescently polite, and then close the door behind her as she left, so they could finally have some fucking privacy. 

Now, he could go hold Porthos. He'd cry his brains out in the bathroom when he got some time alone. 

"Is he gonna have that on his face the whole time?" Porthos said, staring down at Athos in the bed. 

Aramis could see the little oxygen tube beneath Athos' nose, up close now. It hooked over his ears and disappeared behind his hair, his beard. His beard was too long--he must not have trimmed it all week. Another sign that they'd missed.

"I don't know." Aramis wrapped his arm around Porthos' waist and leaned into him. "We can ask the doctor."

"Yeah." Porthos sniffed, his voice tightening. Aramis kissed his temple, and Porthos let out his breath in a shaky sigh. "I didn't think--he looks like he's just sleeping. 'Cept he never sleeps on his back."

Aramis had to laugh, his chest wrenching with fondness. "Yeah, I know. It's so--it's weird."

"I wanna roll him on his side and give him another blanket." Porthos' right hand lifted an inch toward Athos' face, and Aramis' chest ached to see him freeze it in midair. 

Aramis braced himself and reached out to touch Athos' hand. He had to consciously stop his hand shaking--he didn't know what he was thinking. That Athos would feel dead, cold; that he'd shatter whatever fragile illusion was keeping Athos alive in front of them. 

Athos' skin was cool from the cold room, but warmed immediately at Aramis' touch. He didn't feel clammy or dead. 

He was here. He was alive. Aramis swallowed hard and closed his fingers around Athos'. 

Porthos let out a shaky breath. He looked less anxious, though, less pale. Aramis had helped, maybe, proved it was fine to touch--this time, Porthos lifted his hand and stroked Athos' cheek. 

It hurt to see Athos' face stay smooth and unlined, for the heart monitor to just keep beeping at its same page. Disney had fucking lied. 

But they were here and they could touch him, so maybe things would still be okay. 

Aramis kissed Porthos' cheekbone. "I'm so proud of you," he said. His throat ached with the threat of tears, making his voice rougher than he'd like it to be, but he kept going. "You're being so brave."

Porthos gave a weak chuckle and hooked an arm around Aramis' waist. "Not as brave as you. You're--handing everything, you're taking such good care of me."

"It's not a contest." Aramis rested his forehead on Porthos' temple, watching Porthos gently tracing Athos' still face. "I love you."

Porthos' shoulders relaxed a fraction. "I love you, too."

Aramis kissed him again and straightened. "I'm going to wash up, okay?" Porthos nodded, his eyes still on Athos, and Aramis grabbed their bag and slipped into the en-suite. 

Dear God, there were toothbrushes in new packaging. Athos' parents must have donated the whole wing. 

Aramis leaned on the sink and took a deep breath. And another. Without Porthos' gaze on him, there was nothing he needed to keep himself together for. 

For the first time since leaving high school, Aramis felt the squeezing vise in his chest and ache in the back of his throat that signaled an oncoming breakdown. He kept breathing deeply, trying to keep the burn from his eyes. It was okay. Athos had the best doctors in the city. Porthos was handling it. It was okay. 

He shuddered out a sound, feeling the sobs start to build up, crowding at his chest and jostling each other to be let out. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. 

A light tap on the door echoed in the tiny space. "Aramis? Babe, you okay?"

Aramis opened his mouth to say, _yeah, fine,_ but. 

But lying about how _okay_ he was had landed Athos in the hospital. 

_No new secrets,_ he heard his own voice saying. 

Porthos was a grownup. Aramis could support him, and still be honest about his own pain. Right?

Porthos knocked again, harder. "Aramis?"

Aramis opened the bathroom door to look up into Porthos' worried face. "Can I cry on you," he croaked, his voice already a wreck, "or do you need me to keep being the strong one?" 

"Oh, _babe."_ Porthos opened his arms, and Aramis tumbled forward to hide his tears against Porthos' chest. He felt Porthos kiss his hair as he wrapped him close. "We can take turns."

\--

Porthos hugged Aramis close and watched Athos breathe. There was one armchair in the room, only half-padded and a gross shade of tan-green, but it was big enough for Aramis to sit on Porthos' lap. 

Aramis had dozed off after crying himself dry, with his head tucked in the crook of Porthos' neck. Porthos didn't mind. He liked the feel of Aramis slumped on him, curved crossways against his chest and snuffling softly into his ear. He loved the way Aramis trusted him enough to fall asleep on him.

Athos was like that, too. So closed-off during the day, but so soft when he was asleep. 

Athos trusted them. He _did._ Porthos had to keep telling himself that. Athos did trust them. It was obvious to anyone with a pulse that Athos trusted them, that he--he loved them. 

He just hadn't thought he could tell them about...about whatever the hell it really was that had ended up in _this._ That didn't mean they hadn't been honest enough, or that they hadn't told him they cared enough. Athos hadn't wanted to tell anyone about this. That was a him thing, not a them thing. 

_But he told Constance,_ a shitty little voice in his head whispered. Porthos swatted it like a bug. All Athos had told Constance was that he did drugs with his ex. That was a big fucking thing, yeah--a really huge fucking thing that Porthos was still trying to decide if he was okay with--but he hadn't gone to Constance about any of this bullshit with his suspension. He hadn't gone to anybody about it. 

That was the whole problem, but it made Porthos selfishly feel a little better. It wasn't that Athos didn't trust him and Aramis _specifically._ He didn't trust fucking anybody. 

Porthos had about three seconds of feeling relieved about that before he felt like shit again. 

Aramis made a sleepy sound, nuzzling deeper into Porthos' neck. "You got all tense," he mumbled into Porthos' skin. "Okay?"

Porthos hugged him a little closer, like a human teddy bear. "Yeah. Yeah, just...worried about him."

Aramis sighed and lifted his head. "I am, too." He reached up to rub sleep from his eyes, and Porthos kissed the frown mark on his forehead. Aramis smiled sleepily at him and brushed their lips together once, tenderly.

A sound like a door opening echoed down the hall. 

Aramis tensed all over, and he and Porthos shared a wide-eyed look. Aramis swung his legs over and scrambled out of Porthos' lap, barely making it to an uncompromising position next to the chair before the door opened and two women walked in.

Porthos remembered Sophie from move-in day their first year. She'd had managed to look perfectly put-together even carrying a box of books into a chaotic dorm, and she still looked like she'd walked right out of a department store. Her eyes went right to Athos in the bed, and Porthos saw her bottom lip push out like she was fighting tears.

He'd never seen the other woman before, white, older, and two heads shorter than him, in a navy pantsuit with a razor-edged bob. Sophie being here left no doubt as to who she was--but even if she'd come alone, Porthos would have known her in a second. 

She looked at Porthos and Aramis with an unreadable face and piercing blue eyes, and Porthos' stomach flipped. It was obvious where her son had inherited that look.

"Hello, Madame de la Fere," Aramis said, his voice as perfect and smooth as Porthos had ever heard it. "I'm Aramis, and this is Porthos."

"Hello," she said, stepping forward briskly with one hand outstretched. Her English was crisp and only a little accented with the French-sounding vowels Athos sometimes slipped into. "I'm Emmeline de la Fere. This is Sophie Nguyen, my personal assistant."

"We met," Aramis said, smiling at Sophie as he shook Athos' mother's hand. Porthos had no idea how Aramis was managing it. He himself could only drag up half a smile at Madame de la Fere as she shook his hand, her small, fine-boned fingers rock-hard in his.

Sophie sounded like she had a cold. "I wish we were seeing each other again under better circumstances."

Aramis' smile wavered. Porthos didn't hesitate before he stepped in closer and put his arm around Aramis' waist to hold him up. He didn't worry about what Athos' mom might think. She'd invited them here, after all, she had to know.

But she was already turning away, taking her coat off, and she probably hadn't even noticed. She was standing at the foot of the bed now, staring at her son.

Porthos couldn't read her face at all. It was scary, almost, how much she looked like Athos when he did that. Athos could go totally blank sometimes, his face turning expressionless like someone had closed a curtain behind it--it was strange to realize this was where he'd learned that.

Aramis curled into his side, and Porthos put both his arms around him. 

Madame de la Fere took a deep breath and turned away. "Sophie, would you see if the doctor's ready to speak with us?"

Sophie nodded and slipped from the room. Porthos' stomach lurched--did Madame want to be alone with them? What the hell did she have to say? He tightened his arms around Aramis almost without thinking about it. Protecting. 

She lifted her chin and looked them in the eye. "Thank you for saving his life. The CPR, and the ambulance."

Porthos...hadn't been expecting that.

"Of course," Aramis said, his voice throaty. He had turned his head from where he'd pushed it into Porthos' chest, but he was still holding tight. Porthos could feel Aramis' hand clenched in his hoodie behind his back, where Madame couldn't see. "We love your son very much, Madame."

She nodded, her eyes flickering down and to the side. Porthos felt a hot and angry bubble swelling up in his chest, his throat--he wanted to say something nasty. _We tell him as much as we can. Unlike you. We love him for who he is. Unlike you. We want him in our lives, every day, for as long as we're on this planet--_

She looked back up at them, her eyes sharp and fucking _blue_ like Athos' and Porthos lost his thread. 

"You're both welcome to stay at our home until Olivier's well again," Madame said.

Porthos felt Aramis' knees give out. He hugged him tighter, reeling in his own shock and keeping Aramis upright. And for a long second, the three of them just stared at each other.

This was--not what Porthos had expected at all.

Before either of them could say anything to her, the door opened again, and Sophie came back with a fake-smiling tan guy in a long white coat. Sophie pulled up short, clearly reading the tension, but the doctor walked up to Madame right away and held out his hand for her to shake. "Madame de la Fere, we spoke on the phone, I'm Doctor Ford."

"Yes." She was just as clipped and brisk as ever. "Doctor, these are my son's partners, Porthos Duvallon and Aramis Herrera."

Porthos really hoped his shock wasn't obvious on his face as he shook the doctor's hand. What the fuck? What the fuck. Was this really Athos' mom? The one who a thirty-second phone call from could send Athos into a panic attack? 

He'd expected she'd hate them. He'd expected she'd pretend they weren't even here. But she was thanking them, she was inviting them to stay, she was introducing them to the doctor? 

Shit, he was supposed to be paying attention. He tuned back in to hear the doctor saying "...monitor him. It's not unusual for a patient to take a long time coming out of this."

"It's normal that he hasn't woken up yet?" Aramis sounded doubtful.

The doctor's smile was less fake and more reassuring this time, as he turned it on the two of them. "It's within normal scenarios, yes. I'm sure it's scary, but it's nothing to worry about yet."

Porthos found his voice. "When _do_ we start worrying?"

The doctor surprised him again by actually answering and not feeding them bullshit. "If it's been more than two days, or his vital signs have a massive change." Porthos felt more than saw Aramis' cringing horror, and the doctor added, "But there's no indication any of that might happen." 

"And we can stay with him until he wakes up?" Porthos asked, not so much to ask permission but because he wanted it clear that was what they were going to do.

The doctor nodded. "During visiting hours, of course. We have to close the ward at six in the evening, I'm afraid, it's policy."

Aramis stepped out of Porthos' hold. "He can't be left alone," he said to the doctor, his voice harder than Porthos had ever heard it. "I don't know what your--your _policies_ are, and I really don't care, but he _can't_ wake up in this room alone."

Porthos reached out for Aramis' shoulder to reel him back in. "Babe--"

Aramis didn't shrug his hand off, but he didn't step back, either. "I mean it. He has panic attacks, and he jumps to conclusions, and--he can't be alone, he cannot be alone when he wakes up."

Aramis was as fierce as Porthos had ever seen him. He still seemed like he was glowing under his skin, unshowered and unshaven and in clothes all crumpled from being tossed around in a duffle bag. 

"He'll be monitored twenty-four-seven," the doctor promised, and Aramis slowly stepped back into Porthos' arms. 

Fuck, Porthos loved him so much. He tightened his grip around Aramis' shoulders, hugging him to his chest, and kissed Aramis' hair. He was so grateful for Aramis. He was so grateful Aramis felt brave enough to stand up to these people and tell them the truth. 

"We'll be spending the night at Madame's home," Aramis said, his voice not quite as strong as it had been. "So you know where to find us, if you have to call us."

The doctor glanced to Madame, and she nodded. Porthos saw Sophie smile, out of the corner of his eye. Then the doctor smiled back at Porthos and Aramis, and said that was good to know.

And apparently that was it.

The doctor stayed for a few more minutes, giving them the rundown of Athos' vital signs, of what they'd done the night before after transferring him. It was all just so many words to Porthos. None of it mattered, because Athos was still unconscious, was still right here but impossible to reach. 

_Come on, babe. Come on, open your eyes, we're right here. We're fighting for you. Come on._

Athos' eyes stayed closed, and his monitors kept on beeping in rhythm.

He drove Porthos up the fucking wall sometimes.

When the doctor left, Madame de la Fere went for her coat, as well. "I have to return to the office," she said, and she didn't look at Athos on the bed. "Sophie, will you--?"

Sophie nodded and flipped the page of the pad she'd been taking notes on. Madame shrugged her coat on, like some black-and-white movie star, and stepped up to shake Porthos and Aramis' hands again. "Please call if you need anything. I may not be home for dinner, but I hope I still might see you tonight." 

"Yes, ma'am," Aramis said, a little startled, and she nodded once, sharp. Like Athos did sometimes. 

And then she strode out of the room and was gone as fast as she'd came.

Porthos still was reeling from that when Sophie stepped up to them. She tore off the piece of paper from her pad and held it out to them. She was looking as much like hell as Porthos felt, but he still couldn't help but see her as the enemy right now. Aramis was the one to take the paper she held out.

"We'll have the car here for you at six, when visiting hours are over," Sophie said, and it was nice she already knew they were going to stay the whole time, that she didn't offer to get them sooner. "That's my cellular number, and that's for Jean-Philippe, the driver who will be looking after you. If anything happens, please let me know. And if you need anything at all, please do call me."

She looked so earnest, she looked like she really meant it. But if she cared so much about Athos, how come she never took his side with his mother? How could she let his mom treat him like that--let him come away from his childhood with all this messed-up shit?

"Thank you," Aramis said, and he folded the paper and put it away. "We, uh, appreciate it. We'll see you later?"

Sophie nodded, and she glanced at Porthos, like she was hoping he'd say something. He did the best he could do, which was force a little smile and nod. 

Her smile faded. Maybe he hadn't kept all that off his face as well as he'd thought. 

But she rallied pretty quick, and turned away--but not to the door, to Athos' bed. She walked over to his bedside and laid her hand on his arm, resting at his side. "À bientôt, Athos," she said softly, and patted his hand. 

Then she nodded to the two of them again, and left. And Porthos realize--he hadn't even noticed Madame forgot to say goodbye to her son. 

Aramis let out a shaky breath and turned to press his face into Porthos' chest. Porthos brought his arms up around Aramis' shoulders and held on, just--held on. 

"I wasn't expecting that," Aramis said, his voice muffled in Porthos' hoodie.

Porthos closed his eyes, pushed his face into Aramis' hair and breathed. "Which part?"

Aramis laughed, high and shaky. "Everything?"

Porthos hugged him tighter. "Same."

Aramis lifted his head. He was chewing his bottom lip, his eyes shiny. "Are you okay with staying there tonight?"

He had to think about it. For more than a minute.

"We need someplace to stay," he said finally. Aramis nodded against his chest. "And it's--it's close, right? Where the fuck are we?"

Aramis pressed his face into Porthos' collar, and Porthos could feel that his eyes were wet. "We're by the river. It's--it's less than half a mile, I think, we could walk." He laughed, a little crazily again. "And they're sending a _car._ "

Porthos' stomach clenched. That was what he couldn't stand. The fucking _money,_ how overblown and heavy-handed they were with it, with sending a _car_ when it wasn't ten minutes to walk--

"I don't know if I can sit in a room with her and not go off," Porthos said quietly. 

Aramis reached up and took Porthos' face between his hands, waited patiently until Porthos met his gaze. Aramis' deep brown eyes were sad, but so gentle, and sometimes Porthos wished he had Aramis' capacity for that. "Me neither," Aramis said, one corner of his mouth tugging up. "We don't have to. We can beg out and just go to bed. It'll be okay."

Porthos gave him a look. "Is that gonna be rude?"

Aramis shrugged helplessly. "Does it matter?"

No. Yes. 

Did he still want Athos' parents to like him, after everything they'd done to Athos?

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Aramis'. He didn't know what to say. Aramis' fingertips rubbed gently at the hinge of his jaw, soothing some of the tension away, and bit by bit Porthos let himself--put it down. 

"Yeah, I'm okay staying there tonight," he said finally. "We can just--avoid them, if we have to. And if it bothers them, tough. Athos will understand."

Aramis laughed, actually laughed, and nuzzled at Porthos' face. "I think Athos of all people would understand needing to get away from his parents."

Yeah. God, yeah. Porthos was really starting to understand why Athos never wanted to talk about it. 

They stayed until the nurses came to kick them out. Athos didn't move the whole time, just slept and slept like the--no, nope, not going there, Porthos told himself severely, as they walked downstairs. Just--not thinking about that. 

The staff directed them out to the car before they could even ask. It was glossy black, one of those cars that were usually waiting at airports for guys with briefcases and full suits, and Porthos' stomach clenched. The driver got out and as they approached and came around to open the back door, God have fucking mercy. 

"Bonjour, monsieurs," the man said--he had a French accent and an actual handlebar mustache, what the hell kind of Cartoon Network life had Athos lived before school? "I'm Jean-Philippe, Monsieur de la Fere's driver."

"Hi," Porthos said awkwardly, shifting what hand the duffle was in to shake Jean-Philippe's. Jesus, they'd sent Athos' dad's driver. "I'm Porthos, and this is Aramis."

Jean-Philippe shook Aramis' hand and motioned to the duffle bag. "May I take your bag?" 

Porthos' fingers tightened on it. "We're, uh, we're good."

Jean-Philippe smiled and nodded. "Yes, Monsieur always does, too, when he comes back from school. But Madame insists I ask." 

It wasn't until Aramis was climbing into the seat beside him that Porthos realized--Jean-Philippe meant Athos. When he said Monsieur, he didn't mean Athos' dad, because "school" wouldn't make any sense-- Athos had his own driver?

He looked over at Aramis to find him staring back with huge eyes. Holy shit, Aramis mouthed, and Porthos nodded, unable to do anything else as Jean-Philippe climbed in and started the car. The interior of the car was so plush, Porthos barely felt it when the car started moving. 

"Has Monsieur improved any?" Jean-Philippe asked as the car slid out into traffic. 

Porthos and Aramis shared another startled glance. Jean-Philippe actually sounded concerned. "Yeah," Aramis said, flicking a cautious gaze to the front of the car. "He still hasn't woken up, but he's stable."

Jean-Philippe sighed. "I'm very glad to hear that. We were all so concerned to hear he was back in the hospital."

"Yeah," Porthos said slowly. Who was we?

What did he mean, back?

The windows were dark-tinted, but Porthos could tell when they hit Beacon Hill. Not just from the slope of the street, but--the narrowness, all the brick, the buildings straight out of a postcard. Aramis reached across the seat divider for his hand, and Porthos laced their fingers together. 

Then the car pulled to a stop in an alley, behind a row of buildings. It was dark out already, and with the tinted windows, it looked even darker in the alley. 

Porthos' body tensed for a fight before he knew what was happening. He could pull Aramis down between the seats to be safe, or if he got them both out now he could stall, he knew this was too good to be--

"This is the kitchen entrance," Jean-Philippe said cheerfully, parking the car and turning off the engine. "Monsieur always prefers to come in back here, I thought you might as well, eh?"

Kitchen. Kitchen entrance.

Not _back-off-our-son_ beatdown entrance, Jesus.

Porthos took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles, starting with his shoulders and working his way down, the way Treville had taught him. He winced in apology when he realized how tight he'd been holding Aramis' hand, and he lifted it to press a quick kiss to Aramis' knuckles before they climbed out of the car. 

Jean-Philippe took the damn duffle while he was distracted, so Porthos had two empty hands he didn't know what to do with until Aramis claimed one. They were gonna do this. They were gonna walk into Athos' family home holding hands. 

Okay, then. 

Jean-Philippe opened the door and yelled something French inside before stepping aside to hold the door open for them. Aramis squeezed Porthos' hand, fingers trembling tight, and Porthos tugged him close as they walked in. They were together. They could handle anything.

Holy _shit,_ the kitchen was fucking huge.

There were three ovens. That was the first thing he saw. Three ovens, and four sinks, with a huge rack of pots hanging over the island in the middle and the disarray of a large dinner in the middle of cooking-- And three middle-aged white ladies throwing down their dishtowels and hurrying around the counter toward him and Aramis.

"Oh, how is he?" the woman with the most gray hairs demanded, rushing forward. Porthos froze in surprise as she reached up, dragged his head down, and kissed him on both cheeks--then did the same to Aramis. "Sophie said he was still the same, but that was hours ago--"

Still a little shell-shocked from the kisses-- _French, right_ \--it took him a second to realize she meant Athos--and that the two women hovering anxiously behind her were waiting for the answer, too. "He's still out of it, but they said that's okay," Porthos said, a little surprised that they, well, cared so much.

The first woman clucked her tongue and shook her head. "That boy, all he wants to do is make me gray," she sighed. "Well, thank you for looking after him, it means so much to know he's not all alone up there--Jean-Philippe, what are you doing still standing here, take that upstairs--"

"Oh, that's okay," Aramis said awkwardly, reaching out, but Jean-Philippe shook his head, smiling, and took their bag out through the swinging kitchen doors. 

"I'm Marie," the first woman said, brushing off her apron and reaching for their hands. Her fingers were all knuckles and wrinkled skin, but she shook their hands as briskly as Jean-Philippe had. "This is Caroline, and Lucie. I cook, they clean."

"I cook, too!" Caroline interjected, reaching around to shake their hands as well, but Lucie just laughed.

"You must be tired, eh?" Marie said, stepping back and looking them up and down. "I wish we'd known you were there last night, we would have come to get you…" She trailed off, pursing her lips, then shook her head. "Well. _N'importe quoi._ You'll stay until he's on his feet again?"

Porthos didn't realize that was a question, at first, but Aramis did. "If it's not too much trouble, ma'am," Aramis said, leaning into Porthos a little. A lot of the tension had gone out of Aramis' shoulders--he seemed more relaxed just being around these older, motherly women, and Porthos couldn't blame him. It was all a little much for _him,_ but for Aramis it probably felt like coming home. "We don't have anywhere else to stay in the city, but--we didn't bring much, we just have a few changes of clothes--"

"Oh, that's fine," Marie said, waving it away, "leave anything you'd like Lucie to clean in the basket in the washroom." Before Porthos could react to _that_ , Marie pressed on. "Are you hungry?"

 

Food hadn't crossed Porthos' mind in hours. The nurses had brought a tray of--something, he didn't remember now, he'd been focused on Athos the whole time. But the word, hungry, made him instantly aware _yes, shit, fucking starving._

"Food would be great," Aramis said for them both, smiling. 

"Good, we'll bring it up." Marie beckoned sharply to Lucie. "I'll bet you two want to rest, hmm? Lucie can take you up to your room, and Caroline will bring a tray."

Porthos felt a surge of gratitude for this gray little old lady. "That's--that's really nice of you, ma'am." They wouldn't have to face anybody, they could just say they were tired and eat in their room--

And then he saw how the look on her face was a little sad, and he realized that must be what Athos did, when he was home.

"We hope it didn't cause you any trouble, getting a room ready for us," Aramis said, ever the polite one, to Caroline and Lucie.

Marie waved it aside. "None at all, Monsieur's room is always ready. I have to get dinner on the table, but Lucie will take you up."

He barely had time to process what she must mean by _Monsieur's room_ , because Lucie was already walking and he and Aramis had to hurry to follow. He was going to ask-- _why do you all call Athos_ Monsieur _, isn't that his dad?_ \--when they walked into the main foyer and he forgot _everything_.

Holy shit.

Holy _shit._

This was what old money looked like.

Everything was dark paneled wood, marble tabletops, fabrics that looked too expensive to touch. Every wall had a painting that looked like it belonged in a museum. He couldn't even take it all in--he couldn't look around fast enough before Lucie was leading them to the (polished, gleaming, spiral) stairs. Was that a fucking marble statue in the entryway--underneath the crystal chandelier? He nearly cricked his neck trying to look around at everything and not trip on the stairs.

"Wow," Aramis said, his eyes huge as he followed Lucie. "How, um, how many floors does the house have?"

"Three, and the basement," Lucie said, leading them up and up, one hand trailing lightly on the bannister. She didn't seem that much older than them, but her long, dark braid was streaked with silver. "Monsieur's room is on the third floor. His parents' rooms and the library are here on the second." She waved a hand down the hall as they paused on the second landing, and Porthos saw the glimpse of high, arched ceilings and a wall of books through a door at the end of the hall.

Holy shit. A library?

Lucie started up the stairs again, and Aramis tugged gently on Porthos' hand to shake him from his reverie. "We can check it out later, maybe," he said, his eyes soft, and Porthos grinned sheepishly and followed him. 

The third floor seemed less formal than the other two. The hall didn't have any gilded candlesticks, at least, no paintings on the walls, and Lucie led them to the room at the end. 

Athos' bedroom. 

Aramis' fingers curled tightly around his, and Porthos squeezed his hand. It felt--unreal. Like he was dreaming. Were they really here in Athos' house? 

In the split second before Lucie opened the door, Porthos realized he'd never wondered what Athos' room at his family home looked like. It was just a black hole in his head, because it had sucked up everything about Athos that was good or cheerful and left all that shit that Athos desperately tried to forget.

But it had been his sanctuary, too, hadn't it? The way Athos talked about it, like it had been the only place to hide from his parents' expectation… They were about to see Athos' sanctuary.

Lucie opened the door and stepped back to let them in.

It was smaller than Porthos expected--bigger than their dorm room, but it wasn't half the floor or anything. One wall was entirely windows, closed now with thick cream-colored curtains. The carpet deep blue, and the bed was draped in dark curtains to match. One wall was full of fencing gear, but the others--

His first impression was that the walls were multicolored, but they weren't. 

They were covered in posters. 

The first thing he recognized were the Red Sox posters--a pennant, pictures of Fenway, and a framed and signed Ortiz shirt. Athos never acted like he cared about baseball, but these were right in front of the bed--right where you'd see them every day. 

And then he saw the band posters. Green Day, The Ramones, Garbage and Foo Fighters and Joy Division and other white boy shit Porthos knew Athos listened to but had no idea he liked enough to paper his bedroom walls with. 

The band posters weren't as much of a shock, though, as the guitars. Guitars, multiple. Four of them, two electric and two acoustic, on stands beneath a bookshelf overflowing with books and CDs, beside two amps and an electronic keyboard. Porthos knew enough musicians to tell that these instruments weren't just for show--they'd been played, used, loved.

Athos had never told them he played guitar. Or piano. Or _anything._

Aramis took a step forward, turning slowly in a circle. His mouth was open slightly, and Porthos saw tear tracks shining on his cheeks. 

It was like they'd stepped into a stranger's room, almost. If one wall hadn't been full of fencing gear, he'd have thought they were in the wrong place.

Athos had lived here?

"The bathroom's just through there," Lucie said, breaking them out of their shock. Her face was all twisted up with compassion, and she ducked her head in an almost-bow. "Caroline will be up soon, and Jean-Philippe's left your bag on the bed. Please ring if you need anything, there's a panel by the bed."

"Thanks," Porthos said, his voice cracking. Lucie smiled gently at him, and then she left them alone.

"Oh, my God," Aramis said, his voice low and aching with unshed tears. "Oh, my God, Porthos."

Porthos didn't even know where to start. He moved forward like a sleepwalker, staring at the bookshelf behind the guitars. Huge series that Athos had never said he'd read--all the Patrick O'Brian books, Robert Jordan, Asimov and Pratchett and all the Sandman books, all their spines cracked and worn like they'd been read and reread. Records, dozens of them, cardboard sleeve edges worn soft, with an old turntable dusted and sitting in a place of honor next to the bed. Books of sheet music, classical and pop and stacks of guitar tabs covered in handwritten notes and scribbles and highlights. 

Porthos' chest hurt. Athos--their Athos, the one they knew--he didn't _do_ any of this anymore. He didn't have other hobbies, just--just fencing. His room at school didn't have any posters, barely had any books. He didn't even listen to music that much, anymore.

"Porthos," Aramis said, his voice strange, and Porthos turned. 

Aramis stood in front of the fireplace, staring at a picture frame. The only picture frame, Porthos realized, in the whole room. He'd missed it the first time around, he'd thought the mantle was empty--but when he got closer, he saw the dust. It must have been facedown--Aramis had picked it up.

It was Athos, clean-shaven like Porthos had never seen him, years younger--and another boy. 

Porthos had never, ever seen a picture of him, but he knew right away it was Athos' brother Thomas.

It was a candid picture, Athos and Thomas in the Common during fall. They were hanging off each other, laughing--they had to be younger, Thomas looked like he was eleven or twelve, so--what would that make Athos, fifteen? Sixteen? 

Porthos had never seen Athos smile like that. Not even at him and Aramis. 

"It was turned down," Aramis said, and he set the picture back on the mantle. He was crying, tears streaming down his face. "Like he didn't want to look at it, but couldn't put it away."

Porthos' eyes blurred. He put an arm around Aramis, hugged him tight for comfort, and Aramis turned toward him, pressing his face into Porthos' chest.

"He doesn't do any of this anymore," Aramis whispered. "Porthos, why doesn't he do any of this anymore?"

Porthos swallowed down his own tears. "Probably the same reason he's in the hospital now," he said, trying to keep any anger out of his voice. "Whatever it is that happened to him that we don't know about."

He wished he _knew._ He wished he had someone to _blame._ Because the boy in that picture was happy--he loved his brother, he had hobbies, he had things that he loved. And in the few years between then and the year they met Athos, he'd gone silent and hollow-eyed, lost his laugh and his smile until they'd managed to revive him.

"I feel like we shouldn't be here," Aramis said into his chest. "I feel like--like we've broken his trust, like we're invading his privacy."

It did feel like that. They hadn't meant to--everybody had just wanted to be nice, to give them a place to stay--they hadn't known Athos hadn't told them any of this. He wanted to go downstairs and shake them all, ask them _what happened to him, why isn't he like this anymore_ \--but that would be the invasion. That would be the part that felt unforgivable, to go behind Athos' back and get the story he'd spent so long trying to hide.

"I don't think he wanted us to see all this, no," Porthos agreed. "But we're here now. And--and I don't think he'd be mad that his people are looking after us." Not Madame, but the rest: Sophie, Jean-Philippe and the others. He'd been happy to get their text at Thanksgiving, and they all--

They all seemed like they really cared about him.

Maybe _this_ was Athos' real family, like he and Aramis were.

Aramis lifted his head and smiled, just a little. "Yeah. Yeah, he--he would." He ducked his head and sighed. "He always does try to take care of us."

Porthos ached. He did.

They didn't open any drawers or closets, that would have felt too much like really snooping, but it was hard not to look at the things out in the open. The fencing trophies and medals blew Porthos' mind. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that Athos had been incredible before college, but looking at them all like this brought it home in another way. For the first time, he could appreciate why Athos got nervous about his fencing _now_ \--it must have really hurt, that year he took off. 

"Look at this," Aramis marveled, waving him over to the keyboard stand. "Porthos, this is _hand-written._ "

Porthos loved music, but he'd never learned anything about music theory or how to read it. He could see, obviously, that it was written by hand, but he couldn't tell what kind of song it would be. "Can you play it?"

Aramis had sung in his church choir enough that he could read music, and he reached out to press a key on the keyboard. It didn't make a sound, though, and he looked around for the power button.

"I'm afraid it's broken," said a voice by the door, and they turned to see Caroline with a tray of sandwiches. She smiled sadly at them and set the tray on a table by the window seat. "Monsieur said just to leave it, he didn't want to play it anymore."

Aramis ran his hand over the keys. "How did it break?"

Something closed in Caroline's face, and Porthos wished Aramis hadn't asked. "It was the night Tommy died," she said softly. "It got knocked over."

Athos' voice came back to Porthos, shaky and soft: _He overdosed._

Porthos' mind filled in the way Athos had looked, blue on the floor and still to the touch, and all the paramedics rushing in around him--

Yeah, a keyboard wouldn't have been on the list of priorities. 

"I'm so sorry," Aramis said, his heart in his voice.

Caroline smiled briefly at him, but her eyes looked wet in the light. "We still miss him," she said simply. "And Monsieur loved him very much."

Porthos couldn't stop thinking about it that night, as he lay in bed with Aramis curled up on his chest. They'd eaten and washed up, too tired once the adrenaline faded to do anything but lay down, but Porthos' brain kept him up a little longer after Aramis fell asleep. He couldn't stop thinking about Thomas.

He felt this teenager's ghost in every memory he had of Athos now. Every time Athos had shied away from something that would make him happy--every time Athos had smiled and then withdrawn immediately, like he felt guilty for being happy. 

He didn't know anything about Thomas, but he knew Athos. After three years living together, loving him, Porthos knew Athos well enough to know when Athos felt responsible for something.

Why would Athos feel responsible for his brother's death? For his overdose? Why the hell would _Athos_ overdose if that had killed his brother? 

What the fuck did his ex-girlfriend have to do with it?

He was still trying to think up a good answer when he finally fell asleep.

-

They woke up to Aramis' phone ringing. 

Aramis jerked his head up from Porthos' chest, head aching and eyes stinging in the sun cracking through the blinds, and fumbled for the phone he'd left to charge on the bedside table. Jesus fucking Christ on a bike, what the hell time was it? He felt foggy, cotton-mouthed, like he'd passed out and slept _hard,_ but his dreams had all been Athos playing piano--

It wasn't a number he recognized, but he'd left his with the nurses-- Aramis yanked out his charge cord and brought the phone to his ear. "Aramis Herrera."

_"Mr. Herrera, this is Nurse Holly at MGH,"_ a voice replied, loud in the bedroom, and Porthos' head came up off the pillow. _"If you're able, we need you to come down to the hospital right away."_

Porthos looked frozen, his eyes huge, and Aramis forced himself to ask the most terrifying question of his life. "Did--did something happen with Athos?"

_"Yes, he's awake--"_

Aramis reached blindly out for Porthos, his heartbeat roaring in his ears-- _Holy shit holy shit thank you God thank you thank you--_

_"But I'm afraid he's extremely distressed--his family requested we have you come, he won't let anyone near him--"_

Aramis threw off the blankets and launched himself out of bed. "We're on our way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you know [where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI EVERYONE THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE. We are, at long last, to this chapter I've wanted to share with you for a long time. I'm really excited to get to this point, and so super excited to keep going from here. It's been a very difficult semester for me, work-wise, so far, so thanks for your patience in waiting for me to get this up. Onward!!
> 
>  
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Anxiety attacks; hospitalization; prior family death; descriptions of past drug use and past abusive relationships; mentions of past suicidal tendencies and suicide attempts; drug overdoses; and bad medical care and mental health/addiction treatment (in the past mostly).

His reality and his nightmares had lost their thin line of separation. 

Sirens, clashing with the urgency of some voices and the dispassion of others. Someone sobbing, someone just moaning, low and quiet like an animal in pain. A thick hazy fog over everything, blunting pain and stifling breathing. Voices begging, pleading, praying and swearing to do anything, anything at all, if just please, God, please, they could do this night over and make everything okay. He didn't know what was real, what was memory, what was imaginary. It could have all been real. 

Or none of it could have been.

The click and drip and swish of a hospital, day in and day out the same. Gagging, choking, nausea and claustrophobia. Beeping and hissing and screaming muted through three walls. The itch-itch-itch of the plastic on the tender inside of his wrist, on the inside of his nose. Dried blood, dried vomit, dried tears. Day in and day out. Why wake up and endure more? Stay asleep, stay dreaming, unless the dream was more unbearable. 

When he opened his eyes, Thomas was there. 

Athos stared at his baby brother for a long time, drinking in his face. It was only when Thomas pointed to the closed door that Athos considered the setting of this dream. (It had to be a dream, because Tommy was there. But he was alive, not blue and bloated and still, and that was better than all the other dreams he'd had for so long.)

He was in bed in his old hospital room, the one his family had bought just for him. Pay the money, pay to hide the crazy son away, pay for impeccable management and no questions asked. Have a whole wing renamed so no one thinks you aren't doing the most possible for the only son you have left. 

He had so many dreams set here--his whole lost year's worth of fog and misery and emptiness to replay in what sleep he could find. At least he wasn't chained to the bed in this one. 

"Just between us," Thomas said, jerking his chin at the closed door. "What was the plan this time?"

Athos licked his dry lips. He had a thin oxygen tube wrapped around his face, rubbing his cheek when he talked. "Which time?"

"This one, with the secret pills and the cute boyfriends and the vengeful Anne. What was the plan?"

He didn't remember having one. Presumably this showed on his face, because Thomas put his tongue between his teeth and blew a big fat raspberry at Athos in the bed. "Come on, seriously?"

Athos wanted to flip him off, but his hands felt too heavy. "I don't have a plan anymore," he said. 

Thomas frowned at him. "That's not very Athos of you. Athos always has a plan."

Athos' chest hurt, like Thomas was sitting on him instead of the chair next to the bed. "I haven't had one since you died." He'd never been able to imagine the shape of the world the same way, after the whole foundation crumbled. 

Thomas flicked a piece of lint off the knee of his jeans. He was in the clothes he'd worn to breakfast, that last day. Plaid shirt for their mother, jeans for himself. Socks with a hole in them for Athos. "I didn't think you'd miss me that much."

"I didn't, either." 

Thomas' blue eyes looked right up into his. "Then this is kinda about you, and not me, isn't it?"

Athos stared at him. 

And then he opened his eyes. 

He couldn't see, not at first, but there was light above him, and hazy gray shapes. He blinked rapidly--as much as he could, his eyelids felt heavy--and slowly the lights above him came into focus. Fluorescents.

He felt the pressure of the oxygen tube on his face, hooked in his nose, and his heart spiked. His wrist itched--he didn't have to do more than twitch it to feel the plastic band around it. 

Hospital bracelet. Hospital room. 

His room. 

No. Oh, God, no, not this place again.

The wallpaper he'd looked at every day for a year. The same machines that he'd be hooked up to on days when he'd--

Had he done it again? Had he tried to--to--

Athos grabbed convulsively at his throat, but it wasn't bandaged like the last time, rubbed raw from his loop of sheets--no, no, he hadn't--

Pills? Tommy had said something about pills. But how would he have gotten pills? He didn't remember. His dreams lied all the time, anyway. 

He was in his hospital room. Why was he in this room?

Had he ever left?

Why was he alone? No nurses monitoring him, no doctor on watch. He wasn't supposed to be awake, maybe--had he been unconscious? Had they put him under for something?

How long had he been dreaming?

Every time this had happened, there had been a dream--something so vivid, so real. A dream of being in France with Tommy, a dream of Anne that had felt so real he'd woken up smelling her hair--and now this?

_This one, with the secret pills and the cute boyfriends and the vengeful Anne._

Tommy had said that. No--not Tommy. His own mind, telling him what he was too self-deluding to realize.

A dream in another dream.

Athos squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears seep out at the corners. Oh, God. 

It had all been so real, it had felt so real--

But he wasn't at Dumas, wasn't in some bedroom tucked away safe. He was here. His hospital room. He was _here._

It had felt so real, but--

But, fuck, how many hallucinations had he had, that he'd thought were _so real?_ Dreams of Tommy, of Anne, of France or fencing or--fuck. Fuck. He'd done this to himself so many times. It was his own fucking fault for falling for it, for putting himself under and falling for a fucking dream. He was _here._ He hadn't gone anywhere else. He was _here_ , wasn't he?

God, how pathetic he was. He'd wanted someone to love him so badly he'd made up _two._

It hadn't been real. None of it had been real. A dream of a future he couldn't have, would never have, because he was too sick and broken and fucked-up to ever leave this prison ward. 

Getting to go to school, to have friends, even lovers? What a fucking joke. He'd never gotten better. He was never _going_ to get better. He'd never left this room. He was still here in this bed. He'd spend the rest of his life here. 

It had all been a dream. 

A low keening sound pierced his haze, a broken and animal moan filling the room and drowning out the machines. He didn't realize it was his own voice until his chest ached, until the tears leaking down his cheeks turned into full-fledged sobs. 

He wanted it to be real. He wanted it to be real so badly. 

"Olivier?"

He sobbed harder, that awful fucking name just driving it home again--he'd never left, he'd never leave, oh, _God--_

"Olivier, it's all right--"

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't stand the feeling of the fucking oxygen tube-- He reached up to claw it off, away from his nose, and something stabbed painfully in his hand. Fuck, fuck, of course he had a fucking IV, and he fumbled with the tape holding it there, he couldn't see through his goddamn tears--

"No, Olivier, that needs to stay in--"

Hands grabbed him then, holding his wrists and pulling him down, and Athos fought. He kicked, he thrashed, he heard someone screaming and he didn't know or care if it was him. He didn't want their fucking hands on him, he didn't want to be touched, he didn't want to just lie there and take it--

"Sedative, get more hands to hold him and a sedative--"

No, no, fucking _no_ , no more drugs, no more drugs, no more foggy haze of numb and nothing--he could hear himself begging and howling and no one stopped, no one let go or soothed him or said wait--

The syringe flashed in front of his vision, and Athos lashed out. 

He got a hand around it, jerked hard, and they were shouting around him, the hands leaving one by one, and Athos flung himself out of the bed. 

The nurses backed away, wary of the needle in his hands. Tables turned, he thought harshly, hysterically. Corner. Get in the corner, get his back safe--his legs moved on pure adrenaline, but he felt them shake, heavy from disuse, as he held himself up with the walls. 

They all had their hands out, palms up to him, and the soft soothing words were too little, too late. Fuck. Like he was some monster, some beast, on its hind legs and playacting at humanity. 

"Leave me alone," he rasped, syringe held out in front of him like he used to hold his foil. "Just go away and leave me alone."

They stood there, staring, and no one moved.

He hurled the syringe at the window. The glass ampoule shattered, making everyone jump, flinch, cringe in fear of him, his hatefulness, his anger, _Athos the monster again_ \-- _"Will you leave me the fuck alone?"_

They listened. They left. Probably going to call his parents and get permission to bring in security and tranquilizers, but he couldn't summon the energy to really care. He used all his strength to stay on his feet until the last one closed the door behind them. 

Then he slid down into a heap in the corner. He couldn't breathe through the grief, the shame, the stupid fucking _longing_ for the dream to come back, for even the memory of a fake happiness. 

Of being loved. 

He curled around himself and sobbed. He couldn't hold it in, or hold it back. He pressed his face to his knees, bare and cold, and let his body shake and shudder with his tears. He figured he'd earned it. 

He had no idea how much time passed before he heard shouting outside. It took a while to penetrate his haze, but--

But he thought he knew the voice. Not his parents, not the doctors--

He lifted his head, trying to swallow his sobs enough to hear, and his door flew open. 

Tall, so tall and broad, brown skin and black curls and beautiful eyes red-rimmed and--and real?

 _"Athos,"_ Porthos said, and crashed to his knees beside him. 

Athos stared at him.

It couldn't--couldn't be possible, not--not real, not true--

But he reached out and Porthos caught his hand, and Porthos had been crying, Porthos was looking at Athos like he was a miracle when _he_ was the--

Athos flailed out with his other hand to touch Porthos' face, his cheek and his hair and his shoulder and that was the way he felt, the way he smelled and the way he looked, and Porthos was touching him, too, holding tight to Athos' hand and cupping his face. 

Porthos had been crying.

Even in his most self-obsessed hallucinations, Athos had never imagined anyone would cry over him.

"You're real?" Athos asked him, his voice a broken, cracking thing. 

Porthos' eyes filled with tears, his face crumpling. "Yeah, love, I'm real," he said, and that was the voice, those were the words, that was--this was--

Athos collapsed into Porthos' arms, and Porthos crushed him to his chest and held him so tight, and Athos let go. Let go of all the shame and the longing and the grief, because it was all right. It was real, it had all been real, and he was crying harder than ever, but it was all right. He was held, he was safe. Porthos held him close and Athos sobbed and shook and choked on his own relief and it was all right, it was all right. 

"You're real," he gasped over and over again, as Porthos held him tight enough to crack his ribs. "You're real, you're real, oh, Porthos, you're real--"

"I'm real, I'm here," Porthos whispered into his hair, his arms so strong and solid and his body so warm and his breaking voice so beautiful. "I promise, we're here, we've got you, love."

We-- _we_ \--

And then Athos held back a sob long enough to hear the blistering tirade, clear now through the open door-- _"We told you, we_ told _you not to leave him alone, we told you he couldn't wake up all by himself, I looked you in the goddamn eyes and told you! Did you not think about it for a fucking second--how could you do that to him, how the fuck did you think that you could--"_

Athos laughed. He couldn't help it, couldn't manage more than a shuddery thing that was more sob than mirth, but it made Porthos hold him even tighter, and Athos lifted his head. "Aramis," he called, raspy through his ravaged throat, but the shouting went on, louder, drowning out Athos' ragged call. 

Porthos half-laughed and stroked Athos' hair, then pressed Athos' head back down to rest on his shoulder. _"Aramis,"_ he yelled, his beautiful voice booming out, and the shouting cut off abruptly. 

Athos heard a rush of feet, and then Aramis appeared in the doorway. His eyes were as red as Porthos', his curls were a sleep-tousled mess, and he looked pale and frightened and furious and was still the most gorgeous thing Athos had ever seen. 

And then he saw them, and lit up like sun. "Athos, oh, _Athos--_ "

He took three steps and dropped to his knees on the floor beside them. His hands were so soft, so tender as he took Athos' face in his hands and stroked his hair back, beaming, before ducking in to hold both Athos and Porthos as tight as he could. 

Athos held on for dear life, tears still flowing, soaking Porthos' sweatshirt. He couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop shaking. He was so thankful, he could barely breathe. "I thought it wasn't real," he choked out. "I thought I'd imagined it all--I woke up here and thought I'd never left, I thought I'd dreamed the last three years, I thought you weren't real."

"Oh, _love,_ " Aramis said, his voice breaking, and Athos felt lips press to his hair. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry--we're here, we're really here, we won't disappear."

Athos hung on even tighter, fists clenched in Porthos' hoodie, Aramis' coat. He felt like he was purging something toxic from his body, crying out all the shame and loathing and despair in his lungs, his limbs, his mind, as they held him. 

"I thought I was all alone," he whispered, clinging to them. "I thought I was, but I'm not, I love you so much, I don't ever want to leave again--"

Aramis let out a broken sound and clutched at him, and Porthos sobbed, just once, pressing his face into Athos' hair. 

And Athos realized--he'd said it. 

He was open, he was broken open, but it didn't hurt at all. 

"I'm sorry," he said, still shaking, still crying, but breathing, breathing free for the first time since he could remember. "I--I've wanted to--I've _always--"_

"Love you," Porthos choked, holding him like Athos was the rock for once. "Athos, we love you so much."

"We always knew," Aramis whispered, "but, oh, love, hearing you _say it…_ "

Athos sobbed. "I love you," he whispered, over and over again. "I love you, I'm sorry, I love you, I love you so much."

They held him while he cried, while he poured out all the poison in him and whispered love to them. 

It didn't hurt. It finally didn't hurt. 

When he managed to draw a breath without sobbing it back out, and another, he lifted his head. 

Porthos smiled down at him, tears glazing his own face. "Hey, there," he said, reaching up to stroke Athos' cheek, and Athos savored the smile, the touch. 

"Hi," Athos rasped. "I forgot to say that part."

Aramis laughed, the sound making Athos' heart thump off-beat like it always had. Athos smiled at him, and Aramis leaned in and kissed his forehead.

"Oh, shit, your hand," Porthos said suddenly, and they all looked down to see a bloody slash on the back of Athos' hand. "Babe--"

Athos flushed. "I think I ripped my IV out," he said, and winced at Aramis' very loud _tsk._ "I was panicking."

"That's the only reason I'm not scolding you," Aramis said, and kissed his temple again. "Come on, let's get you back in bed and have the doctors look at that."

"You gonna let them in?" Porthos teased Aramis as they helped Athos get his feet under him. 

Aramis sniffed, lifting his chin as he stalked to the door. "Just for the cut." He looked mutinous again at the mention of the staff, and Athos warmed all over at the memory of Aramis' enraged voice berating his parents' bought-and-paid-for doctors. 

"He ranted all the way here," Porthos said in Athos' ear. "We were running up Charles Street and he was spitting in Spanish."

"I love you," Athos called to Aramis. Aramis missed a step, looking back at Athos with bright, delighted eyes, and Athos wondered how many times he could say it and still get that reaction from them. 

Then Porthos distracted him by actually, physically picking him up, and it was Athos' turn to look up calf-eyed in surprise. 

"Still wanna hold you," Porthos muttered, his cheeks flushing with color, and Athos didn't say a word as Porthos half-climbed into the bed, setting Athos down in his lap. 

Aramis gave them a warm look from the doorway. Then it faded, his face setting itself in hard lines, and he jerked the door open and stuck his head out. "Can we have a nurse, please? No, _just_ a nurse, thank you, and preferably someone who hasn't already done more than enough damage? He's bleeding from the IV spot."

He stood glaring in the doorway until a nurse Athos didn't recognize joined him. "Hi, Athos," she said, smiling at him first, and Aramis unbent slightly and stepped away from the door. This was permission enough to come in, and she brought in a small tray of gauze and other things. 

The cut didn't need stitches, thankfully, but Athos still averted his gaze when she cleaned and bandaged it. He still hated the sight of medical tape on that hand. But she didn't make Porthos let go of him during it, and he felt better when she asked if she could take his vitals. Porthos did have to move for that, but he came right back as soon as she was done. 

"I think we won't need another IV or oxygen tube," she said to Athos, and smiled when he visibly relaxed. "Would you like me to send the doctor in to talk?"

Aramis cleared his throat, and Athos looked over at him, a smile starting on his own face. But Aramis looked serious, even a little grave, and Athos' smile faltered. 

"Can you give us some privacy, actually?" Aramis asked, polite but firm. "Unless the doctor needs to see him right away."

The nurse tilted her head, obviously puzzled, but didn't object. As she left with her tray, Athos felt the first stirrings of discomfort. Aramis looked so serious, and he could feel Porthos shifting behind him. 

When the door closed behind her, Aramis sat down on the bed. Porthos, too, slid around to sit beside Athos, instead of behind him. Athos swallowed, trying to keep the anxiety at bay. "Do we need to talk about something?"

"We have a little catching up to do," Aramis said, and reached out to fold one of Athos' hands between his two. His hands were warm, and Athos relaxed a little. Aramis wouldn't still be touching him if he were angry. 

"Yeah," Porthos said, and his voice was a little lower. His arm was still around Athos, his hand heavy and grounding on the small of Athos' back. "More than a little." Aramis' eyes flickered to Porthos, and Athos saw the pain and exhaustion in the look they shared. 

Oh. 

Oh, right. 

His panic earlier had driven every other memory away, but he was starting to remember what had really landed him here. It hadn't been a dream: he really had fucked up that badly. 

He owed them a few years' worth of explanations. 

Athos swallowed, a painful weight settling in his stomach, and nodded. "Yes." He looked down at the sheets, collecting his scattered memories. "How--how many days has it been?"

"Just the one," Porthos said softly. "We got you to the hospital Friday night, and you were out all day yesterday. It's about noon now, it's Sunday."

Less than he'd feared. Less than last time, at least. Athos took another settling breath. "Okay." 

"We can start small," Aramis said. It almost hurt, how soft their voices were. How gentle they were being with him, despite how upset he could clearly see they still were. He really didn't deserve them. "If it's hard for you. But please, Athos--"

"I'll tell you," Athos said. He couldn't bear to hear Aramis beg him to talk to them, to trust them. "Everything, right now, I promise. I want to. It--it's only that I've never told...anyone." He almost laughed. "I don't know where to start."

"I do," Porthos said, his voice quieter than Athos had ever heard it. When Athos looked up at him, he found Porthos looking almost apprehensive. His eyes were heavy, full, and Athos' heart clenched. "Can you tell us if you OD'ed on accident, or--or on purpose?"

Athos stared at him. 

Oh--oh, God, they'd thought--

 _"Accident,"_ he blurted out, horrified, reaching out to clutch at Porthos' leg. "God, fuck, I'm so--yes, yes, it was completely an accident, I promise. I didn't mean to--didn't _want_ to, I--" Athos realized he was babbling and closed his mouth, trying to get a grip. Porthos' face had lifted at his first words, and Aramis looked relieved, too, and oh, fuck, he wished they hadn't had to wonder that for a single second. 

"I'm so sorry," he said, staring down at the sheets. "God, of course you thought that, I--I'm so sorry."

"We didn't know what to think," Porthos said. His voice was very level, and now that that fear was eased, Athos could tell that Porthos was trying to keep a grip on himself.

He was angry. _Really_ angry. 

Well, Athos couldn't blame him. 

"We're not mad," Aramis tried to begin, but all at once Athos couldn't stand to hear Aramis go through this again--to try and be gentle and calm, like everything was okay, when they clearly _weren't_ and it just _wasn't_.

This was his mess, and maybe this was the place he could start to fix it.

"No, you are," Athos cut him off, looking up and looking him dead in the eye. "Porthos is furious with me, and you're a wreck, and please, please don't try to tell me that you aren't."

Aramis reared back, eyes wide. Porthos' lips tugged up in a faint smile, but he didn't say anything, and Athos knew he'd guessed right. Finally, he was right about something going on for them. 

"We want answers more than anything, love," Aramis said when he'd recovered, flashing a quick look to Porthos. "We just want to know what happened." 

Athos laughed hollowly. His filter was gone, that thing that kept him from laughing aloud, from telling them he loved them. He felt wrung-out and empty, but maybe this was good. Maybe this meant he had space for something else inside of him again. "I don't even know where to start."

"Well, pick someplace," Porthos said, his voice still low and even. "Like maybe why the fuck you'd take pills from that ex of yours and not tell us about them."

It was almost a relief, that they already knew that much of it. 

"Constance told us what you'd told her," Aramis explained, off the look on his face. It brought back a fuzzy memory of a shame-choked conversation by the lake, and Athos tried to remember what he'd said. 

"That you used to get high with your ex," Porthos filled in, his voice harsher than it had ever been, directed at Athos.

And suddenly that part of Porthos' anger was clear. Charon had sold drugs, hadn't he? 

"And d'Artagnan remembered her from the party," Aramis said quietly. "It was easy to put some of it together after that, but--we know we don't have the whole story."

Athos nodded, swallowing down the bitter burning at the back of his throat. "I know you don't," he said, his voice very quiet, and he had to drop his gaze again. "I worked very hard to keep it from you."

"Yeah, you fucking did." Porthos' voice cracked. "So you wanna give it to us now, or what?"

Athos closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

The strange thing was, he did. 

He actually did want to tell them. 

"It didn't start as getting high," he said, his eyes still closed. "It started as--well, it was medication. That was what happened on Friday, I'd been panicking all day and I just wanted it to stop."

Aramis' voice was still so incredibly gentle. "Just one of those pills could have done that."

Athos almost smiled. "It wouldn't have, back when I used to do this all the time. I forgot my tolerance wouldn't be what it was." He sighed, melancholy washing up heavy in his chest. "Rookie mistake," he murmured, Tommy's face swimming behind his eyelids.

"Junkie mistake," Porthos said coldly. 

"Porthos," Aramis murmured.

Athos shook his head, squeezing Aramis' hand lightly. "He's right."

"I don't care if he's right!" Aramis snapped, and Athos opened his eyes in surprise, looking up at him. Porthos was staring at Aramis, too, and Aramis glared at the two of them. He was half a shade paler than normal, but his cheeks were flushed red. 

"I don't care," Aramis repeated, his voice softening as he got a grip again. "I don't want you to feel like you have to flagellate yourself for what you did when you were a scared teenager. You didn't want me to, and I'm not going to let you. Porthos is angry and he has every right to be, and frankly I'm angry, too, that you didn't tell us this before, but--I'm not going to sit here and make you take penance or something before you even tell us what happened."

They stared at him for a long minute, and then Porthos blew out his breath and sat back. His hand left the small of Athos' back, and as much as Athos mourned the loss of connection, he understood it right now. Porthos folded his hands together in his own lap and nodded, his face set. "Yeah," he said, looking at his hands. "But I need 'what happened' to come _right now,_ Athos."

Athos wanted to hold him. He wanted to touch his hand, to put his arms around him, to say he was so sorry for putting them through this. 

When he'd finished, he could.

"When did it start?" Aramis asked, his hand still blessedly soft in Athos'. "The--medicating?"

Athos sighed. "Anne."

He could still remember the day they met perfectly--one of the last things he _could_ remember perfectly, before everything started to blur together. "She moved to Boston the fall of my sophomore year. We met on the first day of the semester." He could still feel the chill in the courtyard, the shock of heat when she came over to him, sat down and looked him in the eye. "I was gone right from the beginning," he admitted, his voice losing some of its strength. "Nobody--nobody had ever...picked me before."

Aramis stroked his thumb along Athos' knuckles, silent support, and Athos heard Porthos let out a slow breath. 

"I'd started having the anxiety attacks at fourteen," Athos explained, spinning it out slowly. It was so strange, finally telling them. Telling anyone. "My family didn't help, but they didn't cause it, either. It was just something that started happening. It made fencing almost impossible--I'd get so anxious about it happening during a meet that I'd have one before I even started."

"Panic attacks--like the one at the first meet," Porthos said slowly. "Afterward."

Athos nodded. "I didn't know how to ask for help with it. My parents didn't--make it easy to approach them." The thought had never crossed his mind, to ask. To seek help in any way, really. It wasn't done, in his family. "My father was already spending half the year in Paris, and maman had her other concerns. Tommy could tell I was having problems, but--he was so much younger than me, and I didn't want him to think it was his job to try and fix it. So I kept it all to myself."

"Until Anne?" Aramis asked.

Athos swallowed the lump in his throat. "I couldn't hide them from her. We were together all the time, she never wanted me out of her sight. I was so ashamed the first time I had a panic attack in front of her, but--she offered me something to help with it instead."

Porthos' breath hissed between his teeth. "She was your dealer."

Athos nodded. He still couldn't look up. "Her parents own a pharmaceutical company. She could get anything, for--for anyone. She hated being new money, dropped into my old world, so that was how she decided she'd make herself important. She fixed me, and then she made me popular again. She turned us into the power couple of the school--I was a de la Fere, and she could get everyone whatever they wanted." He almost laughed. "Sometimes I wonder, now, if I was--"

His throat locked on the words. He couldn't say it. Even now, after everything she'd done to him...he couldn't say it.

He still wanted to believe she'd really loved him.

His broken sentence must have told them everything he didn't say, and Porthos muttered something under his breath, something Athos couldn't hear. Aramis shifted, and Athos glanced up to see Aramis wrapping his other hand over Porthos'. 

Athos breathed around the stab of pain in his chest. "It was our junior year when Anne started taking the pills, too. I think the strain of it all started getting to her." _The way it had gotten to me._ "That was when I started doing more than just enough to keep me level, too. It was just--" He hated this part, was so ashamed of it. "It was easier to be high all the time," he admitted finally. "With all the pressure. With the way my family was. With the way I was."

The way he and Anne had become.

"What changed?" Porthos asked finally, breaking the silence.

For the first time since he'd started talking, Athos felt tears start to burn in his eyes. "Thomas," he said, and didn't bother trying to keep his voice from breaking. "He--he started to notice, really notice, what was happening. He was--he was starting to feel all the pressure, too, and he--" The tears slid down his nose, and Athos swiped them away, breathed through it. "He said if it was helping me, then it could help him, too."

"Oh, Athos," Aramis said softly, and Athos tried to stop crying. He needed to finish the story. 

"It was my fault," he said, when he had his breath back. "I just kept telling him no, but I--I didn't think of trying to help another way. I _couldn't_ think of another way. I didn't have anything of myself left, I was so far down back then."

Aramis' hand tightened on his. "I know how that feels."

Athos held on, helplessly. "Anne didn't understand. Why I wasn't just letting him do what we did. I think--I think I knew, even then, how bad it had gotten for me, and I--I didn't want that for him." They'd fought so much about it in those last few weeks, more than they'd ever fought in their lives. "Anne didn't--didn't see why it bothered me."

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to ease the burning with his cold hand. The bandage itched, on the back of it; the gash where his IV had been stung. He tried to focus on those, instead of what he had to say next. "I shouldn't have left them alone together. But I--I had a meet. It was out of town, there was a bus, I--I should have asked them to come, too. But it had been so tense, fighting with them both, and." 

He'd run away. He'd seized his chance to just run away and he'd taken it. He'd never know if that was the part he regretted most, or everything leading up to that. He could have asked them both to come, and they would have, but. 

But he didn't. 

"I got home late," he said finally. He could barely force the words out through the clench in his chest, the lump in his throat. "Marie--she's our, our housekeeper--said Anne was over, up in my room. She always was, that wasn't strange or anything. So I went up, I was hoping we weren't going to fight for once, I was tired."

He'd been _sober,_ after a whole day at the meet, so he remembered everything perfectly. Another thing he wished different.

"Anne was in the window seat. She was--stoned. Totally." Her hair hanging loose over her face, her eyes heavy-lidded when she looked up to see him. 

She hadn't seen--she didn't know-- "And," he fought to get out, his voice failing, "and Thomas was--"

He didn't know how to say this part.

"Where was Thomas?" Aramis asked gently.

Athos had to try two times before he could say it. "On the floor."

They already knew what had happened. They knew this part. It should be easier to say.

But all he could remember was falling to the floor, scrambling for Thomas, pulling his brother into his lap and realizing he was already--

Dead weight.

He'd clutched at him, shook him, said his name over and over--looked up at her uncomprehending face, and he was sobbing already, screaming-- 

_Anne, what did you do?_

Aramis and Porthos sat silently beside him, letting him catch his breath. 

Finally, he could speak again. "He'd been gone for hours, and she was too drugged to do anything about it," he got out. His voice sounded small, empty. "There was nothing the paramedics could do. They were--they were my pills. It was a bigger dose than Anne took, she didn't know how strong it was."

This part was somehow both easier and harder. He'd been numb then already, he didn't remember feeling anything for this part. "It's a felony in Massachusetts, what Anne was doing. Mandatory minimums. They ruled the death was accidental, but she still had to go to prison." He rubbed his eyes again. "Later I heard the trial was quick. Quiet, no press. I don't know, I wasn't there."

"You weren't?" Porthos asked, his voice hoarse. It was the first thing he'd said in a long time. "Why not?"

Oh.

Well.

He was wrong about this part being easier.

"I, ah." Breathe. He could breathe through it. "I was here."

Aramis sounded shaky. "Here in the hospital?"

Athos reached out with his bandaged hand and fingered the crisp, sterile white sheets. "Here, actually. This room."

"Why?" Porthos knew the answer. Athos could tell by the hush in his voice. But they needed to hear Athos say it.

He closed his eyes, felt the tears slid out and down his face. Onto those sheets, the same ones that had soaked up so many of them. "Without Anne and my pills, I went into withdrawal. It took my mother a week to realize I was detoxing, so she put me in rehab."

Deep breath. 

Deep breath. 

Athos swallowed and let it out. "And then when I tried to kill myself there, they put me here."

Aramis' hand tightened painfully on his. Athos held on. 

"I bounced back and forth between this room and rehab for eight months," he told them. Finally. _Finally._ "I'd be here, in inpatient, and then when they thought they could trust me, they'd send me back to rehab. And then I'd try again, and be back here. Three times." 

"And no one helped?" Porthos' voice shook. "No family, no friends? Nobody gave a shit?"

Athos had to smile, helplessly, warmed through by Porthos' anger on his behalf. "My mother didn't understand what was wrong with me. My father ran away to the Paris house, he lives there except for holidays now. I didn't have any friends apart from Anne, not anymore. And I--" He'd never said this out loud, even though it had been his reality for so long. "I wanted to die, anyway. I didn't have anything left."

"But something changed," Aramis pressed him, his voice throbbing like he was holding back tears. "When did it change?"

Athos tipped his head back, opening his eyes at last and looking up at the ceiling. "I was here again. I'd--tried again. It was right after New Year's. Treville came to see me."

The first visitor he'd had. He'd barely understood when the nurses told him, asked him if he wanted to see someone. He thought he'd been forgotten. That there wasn't anyone left to care.

"He didn't--he didn't mention any of the scandal, nothing except how sorry he'd been to hear about Thomas." The first person who'd said that to him, after the disaster of Tommy's funeral. "And he asked how I was doing, and if I still wanted to come to Dumas. My mother must have deferred my acceptance, I realized--I hadn't even thought about college since it happened. He said he'd still take me on the fencing team, if I could promise to commit to it."

It had woken up something he thought had died with his brother, that one little conversation. Treville's steadiness, his surety that Athos still had something in him to give.

"I promised him I'd try to get healthy again," Athos went on. "And I did. I started eating again, I did some exercising in my room. They let me have one of my practice foils, supervised. I'd--I'd forgotten how much I loved it." How much he _could_ love something. "When Treville came to see me again at the end of February, I must have looked completely different to him. He was proud of me, he--he said he was glad to see me getting back to myself. We made a deal that If I stayed clean, stayed sober and kept taking care of myself, he'd keep a place on the team for me. It convinced the doctors I wasn't going to hurt myself anymore, so they let me go to the accepted students weekend in March." He had to smile. "That was the first time I'd been outside since May."

"Oh, my God," Aramis said flatly, and Athos looked up into his face. Aramis was staring at him, tear tracks on his face and his eyes wide with shock. "The van, from the airport."

Athos smiled through the sudden haze of tears and nodded. "Treville picked me up from here right before we went to the airport. You were the first stranger I'd seen in ten months."

Aramis' mouth dropped open. "I was bouncing off the _walls,_ I can't believe I didn't _terrify_ you--"

"You did," Athos chuckled, unable to stop himself from smiling. "I didn't even remember how to talk to people, but--but you were so nice. And then we picked everyone else up, and we went to the--"

"Train station," Porthos filled in, his own eyes wet. "The last seat was on Aramis' other side, and I could tell he was way too much for you, so I took it and I talked to him so you wouldn't have to."

Aramis' cheeks flooded pink. _"Now_ you tell me?"

"It's okay," Athos assured him, squeezing his hand. "It was--it was amazing. You were both so--you were incredible. I could see you were both nervous, too, about fitting in, and--and it made it okay. So I stuck to you, and--" His voice failed him again, and he looked down.

"And we know what happened then," Porthos said, and his hand landed on Athos' and Aramis' joined fingers. Athos looked swiftly up at him, and Porthos smiled faintly and squeezed his hand. "You were writing to us from the hospital? After that weekend, when we swapped emails?"

Athos shook his head, the lump back in his throat--from Porthos' tenderness, from how he was leaning in again. "From rehab. Until the week before move-in. It was fine, I--I didn't want to go home, until I had to pack. Until I knew for sure I was getting away."

"And you did," Aramis said, gentle. "You got to start over."

Athos let out his breath slowly. He could see it with fresh eyes, now--now that he'd laid it out, piece by piece. "No. I didn't start fresh, I just stamped it all down and tried to build on top of it. So when Anne came back this year, it was all still there to come churning up."

Porthos sighed, his face set in a frown. "Why did she get out?"

"Richelieu. She'd been writing to him--she'd gotten into Dumas, too, we were going to come here together. That's why she works in his office now." Oh, they didn't know, he could tell them-- "She was the one who called in my Honor Code violation," he explained, and watched their faces go tight and tense with anger. "She knew what it would do to me."

"She decided to drag you down to where she'd been," Aramis said, his voice choked. "Like she hadn't done enough already."

Athos half-shrugged. That didn't seem like it mattered so much, anymore. "She just gave me the rope. She knew I'd--" He choked on the metaphor, and shook his head. "It seemed fair, to her. That was what she said."

"When?" Porthos asked sharply. "At the party?"

Oh.

Oh, yes, he had to tell them this, too.

"No, on Friday," he said, and tried to work up the courage to look them in the eyes while he said this. "She found me at the pub, and we talked. I'd seen Richelieu already that day, he said--well, something shitty about Thomas, and it broke me down. So when I saw her, I was already--" Deep breath, come on. Almost done, now. "I was already so low, so broken, I just--fell back into the pattern. She'd always known me best, I thought, and if she thought this was all I was good for…"

"She was wrong." Porthos' hand was steady on his. "You know she was wrong."

Athos shrugged slightly. "She wasn't wrong about all of it. She knew I hadn't changed, not really, that I couldn't change. I let her get in my head, like I always had, and."

Well, he had to say it eventually. 

"She kissed me," he said, and looked them in the eyes, because they deserved that much. "And I was such a mess that I kissed her back, and then I tasted the beer she'd been drinking, and it brought all this back. And then I realized I'd cheated on you, and I panicked, and I went home and took the pills because I needed everything to just _stop._ " 

Athos took a deep breath, let it out, and closed his eyes. "And that is the whole story."

There.

It was up to them, now.

And after a very long silence--

Porthos cleared his throat.

Athos couldn't help his shoulders tensing, waiting for the blow.

"I think," Porthos said slowly, "that we need to revise rule one. From 'no _new_ secrets' to just 'no fucking secrets, period.' Because, seriously, when I agreed to that, you know I didn't expect this much."

And Athos had to laugh.

He laughed, broken and helpless, and looked up at him. "You're right. You're absolutely right, I am so _fucking_ sorry."

Because revising the rule--the relationship rule, their rule one--meant there still _was_ a relationship to have rules for. 

"Absolutely," Aramis said, his eyes tear-filled and warm on Porthos. "That works for me, too."

"And you broke rule two," Porthos said, squeezing Athos' hand. "We're supposed to say if we need something."

Athos was dizzy with relief, that they were still here with him, that he'd said all that and they hadn't gotten up and left. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't even know what I needed, that I needed anything at all."

"Yeah, and we're gonna have to work on that." Porthos and Aramis shared a look, but they were both almost smiling, and Athos held onto their hands with everything he had. "But thank you," Porthos said, looking back at him. "For finally telling us the truth."

Athos shook his head. "Please, don't. I should have--so long ago. But that's the…" He sighed, the word heavy on his tongue. He could say it. He _had_ to say it. 

"That's the addict," he said finally. "It's not the anxiety, the depression. Not entirely. That's the addict in me. It's--it's why I lied for so long."

"Yeah, it is," Porthos agreed, but his voice wasn't hard anymore. He looked a little sad, but--he was almost proud, Athos thought. "That the first time you've ever said it?"

"Yes." It surprised him, really, that he wasn't feeling any of the bitterness, any of the shame he'd always felt before. Aramis smiled at him, like he could tell, and Athos smiled faintly back.

"And that's why I'm not mad anymore," Porthos said, his voice soft. "Not really. I know it's a disease, and I know why you started doing it, now. It wasn't just--for fun, or for kicks, and I'm sorry for jumping to that conclusion. I knew too many people who got started that way, you know?"

Athos nodded, and Porthos smiled at him. But then the smile faded, and Porthos exchanged another glance with Aramis. "So we're not mad, and we understand why it happened."

"And we're not leaving you," Aramis said gently, his soft, dark eyes turning to Athos. "We're not ending things because of this."

"Not in a million years," Porthos said, his voice rough. "But--you know what we need you to promise, now."

"I know." Athos let out his breath, his head feeling too light on his neck and his pulse too loud in his ears. "God, I know. This--this wasn't just a relapse, it was rock bottom. I need--" 

_You can say it,_ he told himself, and swallowed and did. "I need help. Real help, this time, not--not going through the motions because I'm here and I can't leave."

"And you're gonna get it?" Porthos' face was set, but his eyes were wet and soft and--so vulnerable, it broke Athos' heart. "You're gonna get help. For _you,_ not for us, and not because we're telling you to. You're gonna get help for _you._ "

Athos nodded, his chin up and his eyes on theirs. "Yes," he said. "For me."

They smiled at him, and for the first time in so long--

He felt like he deserved it.

"Can I add a rule five?" he said finally, when he could speak again. "No more letting Athos get away with self-destructive bullshit."

Porthos laughed, the tears clearing from his eyes. "Yeah," he said, his smile wide. "Yeah, I think we can do that."

"I love you," Aramis said, and leaned forward to pull Athos into his arms. "I'm proud of you. I love you."

"I love you, too," Athos whispered, a little overwhelmed, and he shuddered when Porthos' arms slid around them, too, Porthos' chest pressing against his back. "I love you both so much. I want to get better. I want to _be_ better."

"You can," Aramis said, and gently kissed his cheek. "You will."

"And we'll help," Porthos said, his voice rumbling through Athos' body. 

Athos closed his eyes and let himself be held. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You know where to find me.](https://tehriz.tumblr.com/) Also, if this story has been meaningful to you in any way, I'm at a very tight spot financially right now putting myself through grad school--if you'd like any U Pro O swag, there is a [Redbubble!](https://www.redbubble.com/people/cherryfeather/works/15523894-dumas-musketeers-fencing-gear?c=405485-unus-pro-omnibus)


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